


Maleficent: The Warlock of Nyrsta Vígi

by OfTheMoors



Category: Maleficent (Disney Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Blood and Injury, Childbirth, Dismemberment, F/M, Good versus Evil, Graphic Description of Corpses, Kidnapping, Magic, Mastitis, Minor Character Death, Physical Abuse, Quests, Requited Love, Rescue, Sacrifice, Scars, Unethical Experimentation, Unrequited Love, Violence, mentions of rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-22 20:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 208,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfTheMoors/pseuds/OfTheMoors
Summary: Nine months after the Wedding Day Battle, as it had quickly come to be known, Aurora and Phillip welcome their first child.  Maleficent is finding her place as the leader of the Dark Fey, but is beginning to question her role in the lives of those around her.  Peace reigns between Ulstead, The Moors, and the Dark Fey.Peace, however, never reigns for long.When the baby is kidnapped, it is up to Maleficent and Diaval to find and rescue their adoptive grandson from an unknown power, whose singular mission is to rule the world...
Relationships: Aurora/Phillip (Disney), Diaval/Maleficent (Disney)
Comments: 369
Kudos: 320





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After a rant on Tumblr about the deficiencies of Mistress of Evil, I had a bright idea about writing a 'threequel' story which addressed the loose threads and issues of said Mistress of Evil, as well as wrapping up the story neatly.
> 
> Well. Did I bite off more than I can chew, or what? Haha help me I'm falling down a bottomless pit.
> 
> Fair warning: we live in the age of COVID-19, and I am currently supervising my young children (one of whom has additional needs and therefore needs quite a bit of one-on-one time) in distance learning. I don't have a lot of time for writing right now, so updates to this story WILL be few and far between. I will finish it, because there's nothing more annoying than a story being half-finished and then abandoned, so I'm not going to do that if I can help it, but I'm not going to lie to you - between being time-poor and never being quite satisfied without ten thousand revisions, it WILL take time. Bear with me!

Discarded books of every imaginable genre littered the hardwood floor of the vast library at Ulstead Castle. A half-finished game of chess sat forgotten on a side table between two armchairs by the opulent carved fireplace, which cast a gentle flickering light into the otherwise darkened space. The soft crackling of the fire was even more obvious in the near silence, which was punctuated only by the echo of anxious footsteps making their way back and forth, back and forth, on the wooden floor.

Diaval sat in one of the ornate velvet armchairs, his elbows resting stoically on his knees, his shoulders tense and rigid. In his hand lay the white queen, his opponent’s piece, which he had liberated from the chessboard over an hour earlier. Though he had instinctively left the black queen, his own queen, the queen who reminded him uncannily of his Dark Fey mistress, unharmed, he had spent an inordinate amount of time meticulously scratching off the marble face of the white queen with the talon on his right thumb. He stared pensively into the dancing flames, scraping and gouging, his mind elsewhere. Other than the rhythmic scratching of his nail against the face of the unfortunate chess piece, Diaval was as still and silent as the distant crags of the Moors.

Though his features betrayed little, Diaval was deeply worried.

He knew, intellectually, that they would have heard something if there was a problem. His Mistress had seldom been hesitant in her expression of rage or pain or misery over the years, and he drew some comfort in the knowledge that her silence likely meant that all was as well as could be expected. He had no cause for concern until he heard ungodly screams of immeasurable agony or saw bolts of emerald lighting turning the night into day.

Still, he couldn’t help the intense and unnerving anxiety which fluttered in his belly like a swarm of hyperactive butterflies. Aurora was his fledgling, and he was honour-bound to protect her, but there was nothing that Diaval could do to help her. Powerlessness did not sit well with him when it came to his little one.

Ten feet away, King John dozed on the chaise by one of the imposing bookshelves, a thick tome laying open upon his chest where it had come to rest as slumber won the battle over nerves. He slept fitfully, snorting and snuffling, and occasionally his eyes would blearily drift open, only to flutter shut again when it became clear that nothing more had happened.

The King had flourished in the nine months since Phillip and Aurora’s wedding, owing to the fact that his overbearing wife now resided permanently in her own suite on a bed of fresh straw, and was unable to do anything more malicious than headbutt him irritably when he arrived for his daily visit with her. He was a kind man, and despite all that Ingrith had done to him, their son, their daughter-in-law and their kingdom, he continued to make the effort to spend time with her and keep her apprised of even the most minor and inconsequential details. John assumed that Ingrith was still quite capable of understanding him, given the timing and appropriateness of her responses to his words, and he found that he rather enjoyed their one-sided conversations. It was the first time in the twenty-six years of their marriage that he felt able to get a word in edgeways, and he quite liked it.

He wondered if Maleficent would ever be inclined to return his wife to her human form, but wasn’t upset enough by her ongoing goathood to bother raising it with the Dark Fey. A few years in a caproid shape might temper Ingrith’s more genocidal impulses anyway, and John could only see that as being a positive.

By the fireplace, Phillip paced slowly up and down like a caged lion, unable to keep still. Occasionally he would stop to closely investigate a nondescript corner of the room, swipe at a mote of dust in the air or worry the golden tassels on the curtains, and then return to his pacing. Diaval wondered if the morning would reveal a rut worn into the floorboards and gaping holes in the soles of the man’s fine leather boots. He had likely walked far enough up and down the length of the sizeable room to have covered the distance to Aurora’s Moorland Castle by now.

Phillip had not been idle in the time since the wedding. As the heir apparent to the throne of Ulstead, he had taken on the responsibility of encouraging peace, diplomacy and friendship between his father’s kingdom, The Moors, and the newly rediscovered Dark Fey society. His display of compassion and chivalry in sparing Borra’s life during the wedding day battle had not gone unnoticed, and he had earned the respect and admiration of the Dark Fey man. As Borra was something of a leader among his people, this had proven to be an integral move on Phillip’s part; keeping the peace was infinitely easier when that peace was among friends. He and Aurora had spent months working closely with Borra and the other Dark Fey leaders, and had formed solid bonds with each. 

Phillip’s work had also brought him into closer proximity with Maleficent and Diaval, though the latter of whom had quite a companionable relationship with the prince already. Their mutual love for Aurora gave them common grounding, but six years within each other’s orbits had proven that they had compatible personalities as well, and their rapport had metamorphosed into something almost brotherly.

Maleficent was far less willing to permit a human a relationship as close as true friendship, but she tolerated Phillip with increasing inclination. She had been heard to concede (once) that Phillip was a decent, caring person, even if he was a human, an admission which almost sent Diaval falling from the tree in which they were seated at the time from the shock of hearing it. Phillip made her daughter happy, and his goals for his land and his people mirrored those of Maleficent’s. He was not ingratiating to her, but neither did she loathe his very human presence in her life as she once did.

Phillip’s marriage to Aurora was blissfully content, a union bathed in sunshine and overwhelming delight, and together they were forging a strong new path toward universal harmony. Phillip’s kindness and Aurora’s endless optimism complemented each other perfectly, and the news of their impending child only served to endear them further to their subjects.

Phillip came to a stop at the fireplace and rocked nervously back and forth on his heels. His face was contorted in worry, and he wrung his hands harder than a God-fearing middle-aged housewife in the presence of public nudity. His voice shook a little when he finally spoke. “Shouldn’t we have heard something by now? How long is it supposed to take?”

Diaval looked up at him. “Are you actually askin’ me, or are you askin’ the fire sprites? They won’t answer you.”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’m asking you.” Phillip replied helplessly. He flopped down into the armchair opposite the shapeshifter, rubbing at the nape of his neck. “It’s been hours.”

“I don’t know how long it takes for humans. I’m a raven. I only know about the raven way of doin’ this, and the raven way is that hatchin’ takes about two hours, give or take, dependin’ on how much fight the little one has in ‘em. One of my little brothers took three hours, but he was always a lazy little gobshite. My littlest sister was out of her egg in under an hour.”

It was a ridiculous way of birthing, really. Trying to squeeze a fully-formed creature from an opening which was far too small for it made no sense at all. Raven procreation was far simpler – the eggs were laid with little difficulty, and then the hatchlings grew and found their own way into the world without having to cause their mother immeasurable pain in the process. The way that humans birthed their young ones seemed excessively gruesome.

And not just humans. Diaval had been horrified to learn some months previously that the Dark Fey gave birth in the same way. His Mistress had laughed at him until she had snorted as he stammered in distress, “But… but… the _horns_ , Mistress! How does it work with the _horns_?!”

It worked with the horns because the horns came later, apparently. He supposed that he should have thought of that.

“It’s been far longer than that.” Phillip said, bringing Diaval back to the present.

“I know.” Diaval replied. He refrained from mentioning that it had been exactly nine hours and twelve minutes since Aurora had suddenly gone pale and silent over her uneaten supper, carefully putting down her fork before whispering urgently to her alarmed godmother. Such information would do nothing to placate Phillip’s anxiety, and Diaval had no desire to acknowledge the passage of time anyway.

Maleficent, to her credit, had been surprisingly civil throughout Aurora’s pregnancy. Owing to her newfound ability to sense the inner spark of each and every life – an interesting side-effect of her death and resurrection, along with a significant increase in her existing powers – she had been the first to know of the coming baby at all, even before Aurora herself. Diaval had expected Maleficent to be upset by the news, considering that she had only just resigned herself to the indisputable fact that Aurora and Phillip were actually in love with each other and it wasn’t simply a ploy on Phillip’s part to seduce and destroy her cherished daughter. It was fair to say that nobody was more surprised than he at the mischievous smile and the cheeky twinkle in her eyes when, the morning after the wedding, she had told him of the tiny spark which had winked into existence overnight.

Once she had thought her way through it, though, she had been a _tiny_ bit cross at how quickly it had happened. Maleficent had never said anything negative to Aurora, who was, of course, thrilled at the prospect of becoming a mother, but Diaval was an entirely different story and she seldom held back when it was just the two of them. Though he was not technically a human, and only wore the form of one because Maleficent allowed it, even he had been mildly offended at her tirades about _insatiable human males and their inability to keep their baby-begetting human male penises to themselves_ , or _preposterous customs requiring women to submit to such treatment at the hands of human males for the sake of pointless hereditary titles_ or _why would anyone want to be do_ that _with someone so foppishly ridiculous anyway?_ He’d nodded seriously as she ranted and raved, hoping that she would forget that her preferred form of him happened to be that of a human male. It wasn’t his fault that this form came equipped with one of those baby-begetting human male penises, after all, so he couldn’t really be blamed for having one. It wasn’t as though he’d used it on anyone anyway.

“You took three days to be born, son.” King John commented, blinking himself awake. He sat up on the chaise, knocking the forgotten book to the floor, and smiled at his son in sympathetic understanding. He had, after all, been exactly where Phillip was now, and remembered that fear acutely even after two and a half decades.

“Three _days_?!” the prince replied in horror.

“That’s why you never had any siblings…” his father muttered wryly. Ingrith had refused to entertain the notion of more children after such an experience, and John honestly could not find it within himself to blame her for that. After three days of writhing and screaming, after which Ingrith could no longer make a sound above a squeak from the damage to her torn and battered throat, she had miserably birthed their healthy, bawling, eleven-pound babe. The damage had been done, though, and even after being churched and healing completely she had refused John access to her bed, lest he put another child in her womb. The years had resigned him to it, however, and in truth he appreciated the lack of pressure to perform. Instead, he had spent the past five and twenty years devoted to the care and education of his beloved son, moulding him into a man to be proud of. In this he had succeeded magnificently, stymieing any genetic influence of Ingrith’s, and Phillip was proving to be everything that a man – indeed, a king – could want in a son.

Phillip sighed loudly.

Diaval glared at him. “It’s _your_ fault, you know. You did this to her. You’d only been married five minutes.” he huffed, raising an eyebrow in challenge. It wasn’t as though Diaval lacked understanding in the nuances of mated relationships, or the importance with which the humans placed upon the begetting of heirs. He completely understood it, but understanding it and agreeing with it, especially when it came to his treasured goddaughter, were two entirely separate things. A little one could have waited a few years. Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty. Not too many years, that, even if it happened to be _several_ raven generations, and then it would have been perfectly fine for Phillip to get close enough to Aurora to be making babies. Their wedding night had been entirely too soon for such a thing to happen, and Diaval knew from surviving her lengthy outbursts that Maleficent happened to agree with him wholeheartedly in this particular belief.

Phillip was too distracted to take Diaval’s bait, however, and instead of engaging in a snipe war to pass the time, the prince crumpled.

“I know.” he whimpered, dropping his head to his hands. “There’s all this talk of how important it is to have heirs, but they don’t tell you about this part.” He exhaled raggedly and looked up at Diaval, eyes moist and threatening to spill. He blinked his tears away rapidly and chewed on his lower lip. “It’s not fair.” he whispered softly, brushing his hand across his face in distress. “I would never hurt her – never! – but there’s no other way. And there’s nothing I can do to help, or make it better, or take it on myself.”

Diaval was a kind bird at heart. Despite his indignation at Phillip for putting his little Aurora into such a position in the first place, he sighed and put those feelings aside. They were no help to anyone anyway, and Phillip was such an innocent creature that it was entirely possible that he had managed to get Aurora with child by accident rather than design. It certainly wouldn’t have come as a surprise to Diaval were that the case. He reached across the chessboard to squeeze the younger man’s shoulder in support. Phillip glanced at him gratefully.

“She’ll be all right. Maleficent won’t let anything happen to her.” _You, on the other hand, Phillip, might be in actual danger once this is all over,_ he thought. If there was one thing that his Mistress could not abide, it was her Beastie in any kind of pain.

“I know she won’t. Maleficent will look after her. It doesn’t change how guilty I feel, though. I should be with her, not stuck out here. I’m the heir apparent, but apparently I can’t bend the rules.”

The corner of Diaval’s mouth twitched faintly. Phillip had tried valiantly to argue with the midwife in order to stay with Aurora, but she had spared no time for princes and their whims and had ejected him quite unceremoniously by shutting the door firmly in his face. At the look of despair on the lad’s face, Diaval and King John had taken him gently by each elbow and led him to the library to wait.

Four and a half chess games, innumerable books, and almost nine hours later, they were still waiting.

All three men looked up in unison as the doorknob suddenly rattled and turned, and the door to the library creaked open. Silhouetted against the flickering light of the hallway behind stood a slightly disheveled, but smiling, Maleficent. Diaval’s breath caught in his throat as he tried to read her expression. Smiling was good. Maleficent seldom smiled without a very compelling reason to do so.

“Phillip,” she said, scanning the room for the harried young man, who looked up in anticipation over the back of the armchair. Maleficent’s tone was warmer than Diaval would have anticipated it being. “You can go in now.”

The prince leapt to his feet and crossed the room in a handful of long strides. “It’s over? Is Aurora all right?” he asked anxiously. King John and Diaval were barely a step behind him.

“All things considered, she is very well. It was an easy birth, after all that.” Maleficent raised an eyebrow at him. “Why are you still here? Off you go.” She stepped aside and nudged Phillip through the door with her wing. The prince needed no further urging, and sprinted down the hallway in search of his wife and newborn child.

Maleficent turned to King John. “Am I correct in assuming that you too would like to run gracelessly down this corridor, Your Majesty?”

The king chuckled. “Of course. I might just walk, though. I’m far too old a man to be running like that.” He winked at Maleficent and started after his son, chuckling delightedly to himself. Maleficent and Diaval watched him until he rounded the corner, out of sight.

Diaval turned back to regard Maleficent. Stray hairs had escaped from the wrap around her head, and her wings were a little bit rumpled. He would have to preen them and put them right for her later, he couldn’t have her flying around with her feathers all tousled like that. Deep shadows had appeared beneath her chartreuse eyes from a long night of waiting and worrying, and fatigue seemed to radiate in waves from her very being. She looked like an absolute mess. Diaval suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of affection and fought back the urge to embrace her.

“All is well?” Diaval asked softly, “Aurora is all right?”

“She’s fine, Diaval. Everything went perfectly. She was very brave – you would have been so proud of her.” Maleficent replied with a weary smile.

“And the baby?”

“A robust, healthy, and utterly perfect little boy who is the image of his mother.” Maleficent’s smile broadened, her eyes misting at the thought of the child. Diaval grinned proudly and blinked away a few tears of his own. All was well. Those he loved most in the world were all safe again, and now there was a new person to love. He imagined himself showing the lad the beauty of the Moors, running through the soft grass of the clearings, climbing trees and playing in the mud. He could see himself toting the child on his shoulders and laughing the days away, Maleficent shaking her head at their antics and pretending that they didn’t amuse her in the slightest. Aurora’s son. His little girl’s little boy. He inhaled shakily and bit his lower lip to control his body’s reaction to his beautiful, unbidden imaginings, and the quiet affection in his Mistress’ gaze as she saw straight into his heart.

“Come.” Maleficent said softly, reaching for Diaval’s hand. “Come and meet him.”

Maleficent led Diaval down the dim hallway, illuminated only by half-burned oil lamps dotted along the walls. The deep orange light flickered delicately, dim enough to cast more shadows than it chased away. There was little sound beyond their own footsteps echoing off the barren stone walls, but as they approached Aurora’s rooms, a tiny mewling cry issued from the other side of the elegant wooden doors.

Diaval stopped dead, his eyes like saucers. He turned to face Maleficent, his expression a portrait of delighted wonder, and the corners of her mouth twitched indulgently at the look on his face.

“That’s a baby…” he murmured in astonishment.

Maleficent sighed and shook her head at him, raising an eyebrow, but the tiny smile remained. “And you’re surprised? What did you think was happening these past few hours? These past few months, in fact?”

“I know, Mistress, but...” he trailed off. “That’s a _baby_. An actual _baby_.” Diaval shook his head as though trying to expel the unexpected notion from his brain. His lower lip trembled slightly and his eyes were again beginning to glisten, reflecting the dancing lamplight.

“Are we going to stay here in the hallway, or would you like to meet the actual baby?” Maleficent asked curtly. He was a strange creature sometimes with his sudden revelations and heartfelt disbeliefs, especially when it came to their adopted daughter. She understood his shock, though, having shared it some forty minutes earlier as she had held Aurora’s clenched hand in her own and watched the child painstakingly enter the world. He had been an _idea_ of someone, a concept represented only by the swell of her daughter’s belly and the nattering of servants washing linens and preparing the royal nursery, but the idea had solidified into bloodied, screaming humanity in what seemed like no more than a breath. He was an impression of a being, and then suddenly there he was – a real and separate entity of his own, warm and heavy on Aurora’s heaving chest.

She gently tugged at Diaval’s hand. “Pull yourself together, birdie. You haven’t even seen the wee beast and you’re already a teary mess.” She squeezed the hand that she held in her own and reached up with the other, gently brushing the fallen tears from beneath his familiar inhuman eyes. He smiled tenderly at her in return.

“How did we get here, Mistress? After everythin’ that’s happened, all the pain and the fear and the uncertainty over the years, we’ve ended up somewhere quite wonderful.” he said softly.

Maleficent smiled gently at him, her hand cradling his cheek. “Luck? Certainly not judgement.” Her smile curved into a wry grin, and Diaval found himself returning it without thinking. That was it, really. Luck, not judgement. How else could a damaged faerie and a common raven find themselves surrounded by the love of a family and joy beyond measure? 

Maleficent gave Diaval’s hand another squeeze and tugged him toward the doors.

They entered the room quietly. The room was dominated by a plush four-poster canopy bed, in which Aurora lay propped up by dozens of satin pillows. Her exhausted face radiated nothing but joy, despite her sweaty hair and the tiny maze of broken blood vessels surrounding her eyes. She was watching her husband and his father by the window, the latter cradling a small bundle of blankets which squeaked and snuffled in his arms. The King had eyes for nobody but his grandson, and was cooing to the boy with an utterly smitten expression on his gentle face. Phillip stood at King John’s shoulder, his own face a picture of awe, unwilling to tear his eyes away from his newborn son for even the few seconds it would have taken to acknowledge Maleficent and Diaval’s entry.

Diaval went immediately to Aurora and sat down beside her on the bed, grinning his head off, and wrapped her in a smothering bear hug. He found the warmth of her in his arms an instant panacea.

“How are you feelin’?” he asked tenderly into her sweaty locks. He pulled back and looked into her eyes, relieved to see nothing but exhausted delight in their azure depths.

“I’m fine, Diaval. It hurt terribly, but the pain is gone now. And look at him! He’s the most perfectly beautiful, wonderful baby I’ve ever seen. My _son_. I have a _son_.” Aurora beamed. Diaval couldn’t help the broad grin which spread across his face in return. He hadn’t seen her this euphorically blissful since her wedding day – but then, it wasn’t every day that a person met their first born.

King John had moved back to the bed with the baby prince with Phillip right behind him. He offered the boy to Diaval, who took him without hesitation and cradled him close. A sudden flashback overwhelmed him; the child’s mother, staring at him with serious eyes from her cradle as she suckled on the milk flower that he had brought her. How had it been long enough already for that baby to have a baby of her own? He blinked rapidly and glanced up at Aurora, who had a few tears of her own.

“Hello little fellow.” Diaval said softly, looking down at the tiny prince and stifling a joyful sniffle. Maleficent had not exaggerated the boy’s resemblance to his mother. It was like looking at a tiny male Aurora. Wispy blonde locks surrounded his precious little head, and a pair of deep blue eyes regarded Diaval with endearing bewilderment. The raven man could easily have believed that Aurora had created this child entirely alone, but for the wee button nose which he now bent to kiss. The nose was undoubtedly Phillip’s.

By the door, Maleficent watched her companion as he cuddled the child, clearly already besotted. His capacity for love never ceased to amaze her. Though she had taken him from all that he knew and understood some two and a half decades earlier by changing his body and mind irretrievably, and in doing so, prevented him from ever returning to the life that he should have had, he had never complained. He had every right to resent her changing him – though his life as a common raven would have been long over by now, she had effectively denied him his right to a mate and offspring, arguably the most important goals of life as a raven. He had never expressed any bitterness at this loss, though. Instead, he had woven together a family from the loose threads of his new life, and loved that improvised family with every fibre of his changeable being. This young woman, this girlchild whom he had watched over from the day of her birth, had become his daughter. Not the child of his body, but the child of his heart – as Aurora was to her as well.

Diaval was seldom acknowledged as being a father to Aurora, as she herself was so referred to as her mother. It was unfair and incorrect, but he never once protested the injustice of it. Aurora and Diaval’s relationship was strong and built on a foundation of love and respect, and he spared no attention to those who could not see it for what it was. He was Aurora’s father, and it was as simple as that.

Maleficent would readily acknowledge that the love of a parent for a child – and indeed, a child for a parent – was real and strong and quite fulfilling, really. She loved Aurora fiercely, though that love had proven to be a chink in her armour on many occasions, and she knew that she would not hesitate to lay down her very life for the young woman. Her love for Aurora had softened her in ways that she could not have predicted, rendering her gentler, kinder, more patient than the vengeful, grief-filled creature she had once been.

In recent months, she had been forced to acknowledge that perhaps love between two people was not necessarily a terrible thing. Aurora loved Phillip with all of her heart, and Maleficent had to admit – albeit begrudgingly – that he appeared to feel the same way about her. He was a good man, he treated her daughter well, and they seemed to be extremely happy together despite Maleficent’s initial misgivings about their marriage. Perhaps true love was something that could happen on _rare_ occasions, to those who were not herself.

The tiny scrap of humanity who now stared up at Diaval’s pointy nose with unfocused blue eyes, their adopted daughter’s son, was likely the closest that either of them would ever have to a grandchild, Maleficent realised with a strange, regretful pang. Here they were, mother and father to Aurora, grandparents to this dear little boy… but what were they to each other?

Something ambiguous, certainly.

He loved her. There was no doubt in her mind about that. Diaval had such an immense ability to love that it was a given. His family were paramount in his life, and Maleficent knew that she was as much a part of that family as Aurora was. He had spent a quarter of a century doing his utmost to serve and care for her, from simple matters such as ensuring that she ate regularly to gradually teaching her how to temper the harsher instincts that she possessed as a result of her past experiences. It was ironic that a creature born into wildness had been the one to tame her.

He loved her, and she supposed that if she were forced to admit it, she loved him too, in her own way. How could she not, after the years that they had spent together and the life which they had built with each other? Of course she cared for him. He was her companion, her confidante, her closest friend. One of the few beings on this very Earth whom she felt comfortable enough with to truly be herself.

She had been entirely honest with him months earlier, after her resurrection, when she had told him that she’d missed him. The ache within her had been unbearable at his absence, the lack of his calming and grounding presence affecting her far more than she was willing to acknowledge, and she had felt heartened to see him alive and well at her side once more.

Sometimes it felt like more than that, though, and it frightened her. Sometimes Diaval looked at her in such a way that she could read his very soul, and the profound love that she saw behind those ebony eyes both thrilled and terrified her. She loved him, but she couldn’t allow it to become more than simply the love of one family member for another. After all that Stefan did to her, she could not allow herself to be vulnerable in that way ever again.

Maleficent did not believe for a moment that after all she had done, she was worthy of the love of another anyway.

The raspy sound of Diaval’s voice brought her back from her reverie. “So what are you going to call him?” he asked Aurora, his eyes fixed on the little one who was beginning to fall asleep from his gentle rocking.

Aurora and Phillip exchanged an adoring smile. They could be remarkably sickly sometimes, Maleficent thought. It was fortunate that she was as fond of the both of them as she was, or it would be entirely intolerable. She walked over to the bed and studied the little prince in Diaval’s arms, trying to think of a name which fitted him. ‘Potato’, perhaps? Or maybe ‘Troll’? He was rather scrunched up and red, his little head unnaturally elongated from birth. An unfortunate appearance, certainly, but no doubt he would improve in the coming days.

Phillip took a deep breath. “Well, here in Ulstead, there is a tradition for naming the firstborn son of the royal family. Aurora and I have discussed it, and we’re both happy to follow it.”

King John looked as though he was going to burst into tears of joy. “Oh, that’s wonderful! It’s been our family tradition for centuries, since the time of King Elstæt the Brauny.”

“What is the tradition?” Maleficent asked curtly. King Elstæt the Brauny, indeed.

“Princes and Princesses of Ulstead are given three names. In the case of firstborn princes, there’s a sort of formula. Aurora and I choose a first name for him, which is entirely his own, and then his middle names are after his paternal and maternal grandfathers, in that order. My full name is Phillip Aldric Hróaldr, after Father’s father King Aldric of Ulstead, and Mother’s father, King Hróaldr of Nyrsta Vígi. As Father said, it has been our family tradition since ancient times. We’ve chosen a name that we feel is right for him, and then the second and third names are for his grandfathers.”

Maleficent froze.

“Mistress…” Diaval murmured, looking up at her in concern. He knew exactly why she had gone still. His anxious gaze met Maleficent’s and he saw pure agony in her eyes. She looked away, turning to stare in single-minded attention at an innocuous spot on the bedspread, and pressed her ruby lips together into a thin line. His Mistress held herself tall and silent, wings curled in close to her body, raising an all too familiar wall within herself at Phillip’s words.

Diaval turned back to Aurora. She was watching the two of them, her expression giving nothing away. He was almost too afraid to ask, but surely… surely Aurora wouldn’t hurt her godmother like that? Surely she would have more compassion than to name her son after Stefan, even if he was her birth father?

He must have looked more nervous than he had realised, because Aurora’s expression softened, and she smiled fondly at the both of them. “It’s all right, Godmother. Our circumstances are a bit different, and even traditions can be bent a little to fit. Phillip and I are going to name our son using the Ulsteadan tradition, though. We _are_ naming him for Phillip’s father… and mine.”

Maleficent bit her lip and looked away. Diaval looked a little sick.

“So,” Aurora continued, “Although it will be formally announced at his christening, we’ve already decided what it will be. We have chosen to name our son Wilfred John… Diaval.”

“What?” Diaval gulped in disbelief.

“Oh!” Maleficent remarked, her shoulders relaxing along with her wings. She returned her gaze to her family with a relieved but satisfied smile and she glanced down at Diaval’s stunned expression. “That’s absolutely perfect.”

“Wait, what?” Diaval repeated, shaking his head and blinking rapidly.

Aurora gave Diaval a sympathetic look. “Do you really think that I would name my son after Stefan, after all he did to Godmother? To my mother? To me? He was my father, yes, but he was never my _father_. You were, Diaval. You always have been. I can only hope that my little boy grows up to be as kind and brave and _good_ as you are.” Aurora leaned over and kissed Diaval on the forehead. “I love you, pretty bird.”

Tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks. “I – I don’t know what to say. That’s lovely of you, Aurora. I’m honoured, truly.” Diaval looked down at the sleeping prince in his arms, blinking away the hot tears which continued to seep unbidden from his eyes. “He’s going to be a wonderful lad, though. Doesn’t matter what you call him. How could he be anythin’ but wonderful with parents like you two?” He was spiralling into sappiness, but he didn’t care a whit. Here he was, fortunate enough to have a darling fledgling like Aurora and her sweet little hatchling child in his life, and the gods were smiling down upon him even more? This small creature would carry his name as well as his heart? It was almost too much joy to bear.

“Certainly.” Maleficent added, refraining from joining Diaval in his overwhelmed emotional display but every bit as delighted. Though Diaval discounted his own position and influence, Maleficent had never doubted who he was to Aurora. Naming the child for him was exactly as it should be.

“He will be a credit to both of you. Prince Wilfred.” She crouched beside Diaval and stroked the baby’s velvety cheek with the back of her finger, marvelling at the softness of his newborn skin. It seemed like mere days ago that she was looking down at the boy’s mother through the cottage window, hissing ‘Beastie’ as Aurora beamed. How had so much time passed in the blink of an eye?

It had been twenty two years, and yet it felt like no time at all.

“Welcome, little one.” Maleficent whispered, suddenly overcome with as intense a feeling of love and protectiveness for the boy as she felt for Aurora, “Welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> *I chose 'Wilfred' as the baby prince's name because apparently it means 'He who wants peace'. It seemed very appropriate for the firstborn of two people who strive for harmony between their lands and peoples.
> 
> *In this particular imagining, Ingrith's home kingdom is called Nyrsta Vígi, which means 'northernmost stronghold' in Icelandic. I've been having far too much fun with Google Translate, let me tell you. Why Icelandic? Because when I looked up the etymology of the name 'Ingrith', it told me that the name is Old Norse, and so I went with a nordic theme for the whole kingdom. I've chosen Old Norse names for the characters where possible (eg. Ingrith's father's name, Hróaldr), or Icelandic-or-surrounding-nordic-languages where it was not possible to use Old Norse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is slightly shorter than the last, but as it's more of a transitional sort of chapter, I figured that you all wouldn't mind.
> 
> Oh, and there's Goat!Ingrith.

Phillip wasn’t entirely certain as to what was going to happen in the next few minutes, but he had managed far more unpleasant tasks without them becoming complete disasters. This was fairly minor by comparison, really, and Aurora was right beside him. He inhaled deeply, trying to slow the rapid pounding of his heart, telling himself that everything was going to be fine. Gathering himself, Phillip cradled his little son tenderly and knocked firmly on the solid wooden door in front of him.

There was no response, but he honestly hadn’t expected one. He turned to Aurora.

“Phillip.” His name was a warning; a mild warning, but a warning nonetheless.

“Do we really have to do this?” he whined at her. “She’s not answering. We could go. We tried.”

“She’s still your mother.” Aurora replied firmly. “Regardless of anything she may have done, or the fact that she’s been a goat for most of the past year, she is still your mother. She has a right to meet our son.”

Phillip sighed. She was right, of course, but it didn’t make introducing his cherished boy to Ingrith any less unpleasant. After all she had done to him and to Aurora in the lead-up to their wedding, he was quite uncomfortable with the idea of her knowing his son.

Still, she had to have known that the child had been coming. His father spent some time with her daily, and he was so excited by Aurora’s pregnancy that there was little chance that he had not told her about it. No doubt King John had also regaled her at length of the child’s birth two days earlier, and this introduction was merely a formality.

“Well, young man, I suppose it’s time to meet your grand-goat.” Phillip remarked to the baby in his arms, and opened the door.

The scent of fresh hay wafted to their nostrils from the room within. The magnificent bed had been stripped of its pillows, linens and the gold-threaded coverlet which had once adorned it, and was now covered in layers of straw interspersed with flower petals. The bedcurtains remained, although they were becoming increasingly ragged at the bottoms from Ingrith’s newfound habit of chewing on just about anything that was not nailed down.

Interspersed throughout the room were a series of wooden obstacles; jumps and balance beams and cow bladders inflated to make balls. With little else to do to pass her days, Ingrith spent a considerable amount of time doing circuits of her personal obstacle course, and had managed to gain a reasonable amount of skill in doing so.

This morning, however, Ingrith was at the window of her room, looking out over Ulstead. The balcony doors had been nailed shut months earlier, with King John not willing to take the chance (however small) that Ingrith may attempt to escape by jumping the forty feet to the ground below, undoubtedly killing herself in the process. At the same time, the doors had been retrofitted with opening windows some five feet above the floor, in order to allow fresh air into the room to offset the lingering smell of stabled goat.

Ingrith stood on her hind legs, her nose poking through the very bottom of one of these windows, sniffing furiously at the soft breeze which drifted through. 

“Mother?” Phillip began, forcing himself to smile. He instinctively held Wilfred closer to his chest, shielding the baby’s face from the bright light which streamed through the glass panes.

Ingrith turned her head and snorted at him before returning her nose to the open window.

“Your Majesty, we’ve come to introduce you to our baby.” Aurora added. Her smile was far more genuine that her husband’s, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes and the strain of it was evident. She turned her head to Phillip, indicating that he should show his mother the child with a quick flick of her eyes.

Phillip approached Ingrith and crouched down on one knee a comfortable distance from her. Though the royal family were reasonably sure that Ingrith could still understand them, her volatile temperament combined with her goat-shape frequently manifested in a penchant for unexpected headbutting. He was wary of taking any chances before he was sure of his mother’s response to the baby. He shifted his son slightly so as to allow Ingrith to see the boy’s face. “His name is Wilfred. He was born the day before yesterday.”

The goat queen moved away from the window, dropping down onto all fours. Slowly, tentatively, Ingrith shuffled forward to peer into the bundle of blankets containing her grandson. Phillip tensed, hoping that it wasn’t as obvious to his mother as it felt to him.

Ingrith sniffed at the baby. Wilfred was sleeping, but he squirmed and grunted at the tickling of his grandmother’s nose. She took a step back in alarm, but when it was clear that she hadn’t woken him, Ingrith went back and bumped the baby with her muzzle. Looking up at Phillip, she let out a single snort and stomped her left front hoof three times on the hardwood floor.

“Do you approve, Mother? He’s a very healthy baby. Nine pounds even and already as strong as an ox.” Phillip said proudly.

Ingrith let out a single bleat, and Phillip could have sworn that she nodded. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he was willing to take it as a positive response. He felt the tension in his shoulders beginning to release.

“Are you comfortable, Your Majesty? Is there anything that we can bring you?” Aurora asked her mother-in-law kindly.

Once again, Ingrith bleated, but this time she took off in a run around the perimeter of the room, kicking and griping as she went. Phillip started and leapt to his feet, clutching Wilfred protectively. His eyes were wide in alarm at his mother’s abrupt change in demeanour.

Suddenly, the goat stopped dead and jumped at the wall in front of her, ricocheting off of it and landing hard. She did it again, bleating loudly, and turned to Aurora and Phillip with an expression of genuine disgust, before kicking her hind legs as hard as she could into the wall. The portrait above her shuddered at the force of it.

“Oh.” said Aurora, pressing her lips together into a tiny grimace. “I don’t know if we can do that.”

“Do what?” Phillip asked her in confusion.

Aurora nodded toward the portrait. “Maybe I’m accustomed to the people in my life speaking without words, after reading Diaval’s body language when he’s in his raven form for so many years, but I’m fairly sure that your mother is trying to tell us that she wants to be a human again.”

The force of Ingrith’s bray set the chandelier above them tinkling.

Phillip looked back at the portrait, noticing the subject for the first time in many years. It was Ingrith as a young woman, painted between her arrival from Nyrsta Vígi and her wedding to King John. Realisation dawned upon him. “You want us to bring you Maleficent.”

Ingrith bleated and kicked the wall again.

“I’m entirely confident that she won’t come if we ask.”

At Phillip’s words, Ingrith spread her limbs apart and bent her head. Emitting a deafening “MAAAA!”, she scraped her hoof along the hardwood, preparing to charge him and Aurora.

“Your Majesty! Please calm down. We’ll try. I can’t promise anything – Godmother can be a bit capricious, you know that, but if I ask her nicely…” Aurora grimaced helplessly at Ingrith, “I’ll try. I can promise you that much.”

The goat queen snorted and turned her back on her son and his family, flicking her tail arrogantly.

“Well, goodbye Mother… we’ll come back soon. Hopefully with good news.” Phillip bobbed his head in a terse bow, and left the room with Wilfred.

Aurora followed him, but paused in the doorway and looked back at Ingrith. “She’s not as bad as everyone seems to think. I might be able to convince her to change you back. Leave it with me, Your Majesty. I promise that I will try.” With that, Aurora gave the goat a sympathetic smile, and went after her husband and son.

* * *

“Are you certain that you’re recovered enough to travel? It hasn’t even been a fortnight. You should be resting. It’s not really the done thing to be gallivanting off so soon after giving birth. You’re supposed to spend a few weeks doing nothing at all, I’m told.”

Aurora paused over her groaning knapsack, clutching several pairs of very sensible undergarments and wondering how much more she would be able to fit into a single bag. Babies made travelling lightly an impossibility. “It’s not that far to the Moors, Phillip, and I promise, I’ll go slowly and carefully, and Godmother is coming to escort us from the other side of the river. I’m not a fragile flower.” Aurora replied. “Please don’t worry. I wouldn’t be going now if I didn’t feel that it was all right. I’ll make sure that I rest when we get to the Moorland Castle.”

“I’d be a lot happier if I were coming too. I’ll miss you both.”

“And I’ll miss you too, but I need to go back to my kingdom, and you have work to do here. Godmother has been doing a sterling job of keeping everything running smoothly these past few weeks, even with all the flying back and forth between the Moors and Ulstead, but I am the queen, and I need to _be_ the queen. Never mind that I think that the Fair Folk would very much like to meet our little Wilfred. He’s _their_ prince too, after all.” Aurora sighed and reached up to kiss her husband tenderly. “It’s only for a week or two, and we’ll be back to start planning the christening. Besides, if you miss us terribly, it will only take you a day on horseback to reach us for a visit – unless you get hopelessly lost again.” she teased.

“It was _one time_ a half-dozen years ago, and you’re never going to let me forget it, are you?” Phillip chuckled.

“Never.” she kissed him again, “Because had you not gotten lost and passed by the cottage that day on the way to Stefan’s castle, then we never would have met, and that would have truly been a tragedy.”

An hour later, Aurora embraced Phillip tightly, as King John stood beside them holding baby Wilfred. The staccato sounds of hammering and raucous chatter drifted down to them from upriver. One of King John’s first edicts following the royal wedding was to order the construction of a bridge between Ulstead and the Moors, as Aurora had once envisaged. With the newfound treaty between the two kingdoms, such a connection had become a possibility, and no time was wasted in making it a reality. The bridge was close to completion, gracefully arcing its way over the rushing water, but not yet complete enough to allow Aurora and Wilfred safe passage across the river.

On the opposite bank, Maleficent could be seen waiting, as still as a statue and every bit as regal. Slowly, she raised her hands, palms uppermost, and a bridge of roots began to snake across the sparkling water in response to the flames of gold arising from her hands.

Shouldering her knapsack, Aurora prised her son from the grip of his reluctant grandfather. “I’ll bring him back, I _promise_.” she said with an indulgent smile.

John chuckled and smiled at her. “Even one day away from him is too many.” he bemoaned, though his tone remained jovial. He leaned in to kiss Aurora’s cheek. “Safe travels, dear Aurora. Come back to us safe and sound.”

Aurora clutched her tiny son to her shoulder and carefully picked her way across the root bridge. Perhaps it was merely her imagination, but she couldn’t help but notice that the bridge seemed to be especially robust this time, wider and thicker than she had ever seen it, as though her godmother’s desire to keep her and her baby safe had reinforced its design.

“Hello Godmother.” Aurora smiled, stepping from the bridge onto the riverbank.

“Beastie. You seem very well. Good.” Maleficent replied tersely, taking Aurora’s knapsack from her and slipping her arm through the strap. She glanced back across the river to Phillip and King John, the latter of whom waved enthusiastically. She acknowledged them with a nod, then turned toward the Moors. “Let’s go.”

The change of seasons had fully enveloped the Moors, with verdant new foliage and vibrant blossoms of every imaginable colour enhancing the natural beauty of the landscape. Breathing deeply, Aurora could detect their delicate perfume wafting on the gentle breeze, fragrant and wild and as familiar to her as her very heartbeat. The leaves rustled softly above, and cheerful birdsong surrounded them with every step. Aurora felt herself relaxing as the rushing sound of the river gradually receded into the distance, replaced by the sweet songs of the Moors. She was home.

As Aurora and Maleficent walked on, the merry chatter of the Fair Folk, delighted that spring had chased away the last of the ice and snow and brought warmth and light to the land, drifted through the trees. Mushroom faeries skittered across the mossy ground before them as they walked, chattering in their faery-tongue and greeting Aurora enthusiastically. The grunts of Wallerbogs playing in the muddy riverbeds, all the more so because of the recent snow melt, followed them along. At one point they were spotted, and Aurora ducked, laughing, as a great glob of mud came hurtling toward her. “I missed you too!” she called with a grin.

Halfway to the Moorland Castle, a friendly ambush of pixies awaited, all desperate to sneak a glimpse of the little prince.

“Off with you.” Maleficent hissed, “You’ll get to see him at the castle when everyone else does.”

“It’s all right, Godmother, I don’t mind. Go on, you can take a peek.” Aurora told the pixies. She held Wilfred out so that they might see his face. They swarmed and cooed, elbowing each other out of the way in order to get a better look at the baby. 

It didn’t take long before it began to get a tad nasty, as pixie scuffles invariably did, as elbowing became pushing and pushing became shoving. At the point at which shoving became slapping and hair-pulling, Aurora and Maleficent exchanged a suffering look, and the latter took charge. “Right, you’ve had a look, now go.”

Without waiting for a response, she waved a hand nonchalantly and sent the pixies flying every which way into the forest, spinning and shrieking. “You can see him again at the castle later this afternoon.” she called after them in the fakest helpful tone that she was capable of mustering.

“Was that strictly necessary?” Aurora asked.

“Of course it was. You indulge them. They’re insufferable enough creatures without it.” Maleficent commented, her eyebrow moving skyward.

“They’re excited, Godmother, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Wilfred will be their king someday, if the fates are willing, and it’s only right that they should know him.”

“Not for many, many years yet, Beastie. I won’t allow it.”

They walked on for several minutes in companionable silence, until Aurora slowed and looked meekly up at her godmother.

“Can… can we stop for a little bit?”

Maleficent peered at her and frowned. She was altogether too pale, the natural rosy hue of her cheeks all but gone, and she looked utterly drained. It was hardly surprising, given that she had given birth just ten days ago and had not really allowed herself any time to recover before traveling miles through the Moors on foot.

“Yes, Beastie, of course. I should have thought.” Maleficent picked up a fallen stick and waved her hand above it, transfiguring it into a cup. “I will be right back with some water.”

She smiled reassuringly at Aurora and took off into the treetops.

Aurora sat back against a sturdy tree trunk, trying to ignore the vague dizziness in the back of her head. She shifted Wilfred to her other shoulder, stretching out the arm that she had been holding him with for most of the journey. He was not a massive baby, but he certainly was not tiny, and she was unused to carrying nine pounds of anything for any length of time.

She was still becoming accustomed to the realisation that she was a _mother_ , and that this little boy was her son. Certainly, she knew as much intellectually, but several times a day she would look at Wilfred and her heart would all but leap from her chest at the sudden thought of _I made him_. It was an overwhelming realisation which had not yet lessened with the passing days; pride in her beautiful baby and in herself for growing and birthing such a remarkable little being.

Equally as frequently, however, came the feelings of nervousness and concern that she was not up to the task of raising a child who would someday be a king twice over.

Phillip seemed undaunted by the challenge of teaching their son to be both a decent, moral human being, and a fair and steadfast ruler of two kingdoms. Aurora herself was worried enough about the first requirement, never mind the second.

She hardly felt old or experienced enough at life to be somebody’s mother.

A large part of her instinctive insecurity was that she had never known her own mother. Taken to live with her pixie aunts when she was barely a month old, she had no memory of Queen Leila, and only a single portrait of her – one of the few possessions that she had chosen to take from the castle in Perceforest before handing it over to the people of the kingdom, under the administration of a select group of advisors and overseers. Though she was still, in a technical sense, their queen, it was only in a technical sense, and she had every intention of abolishing the Perceforest monarchy entirely in a decade or so when the new system of government was well established and running effectively.

Knotgrass, Flittle and Thistlewit had, more of less, taken care of her physical needs (the time that they fed her spiders notwithstanding). They had been adequate caregivers, especially as the years had passed and they had figured out what it was that they were supposed to be doing. Caregivers, however, did not equal mothers.

No, the closest person that she had to a mother was the Dark Fey who had cursed her as a babe and repented years later, raising her from afar. Though they had only formally met each other some six years prior, their bond was as strong as it would have been had Maleficent borne her herself. It was a strange sort of relationship, though, for all that it was solid, although most of the Queen of the Moors’ relationships were of the atypical variety.

The truth was that Aurora had no real role model for mothering a small child, and although she knew that as long as Wilfred was loved and cared for, he would be fine, she struggled to shake the worry that she would not be enough.

The heavy thudding of Maleficent’s wings brought her back to the present. Aurora smiled as her godmother landed before her, hands clasped around the full cup. She knelt and offered it to Aurora, who accepted it gratefully.

“Will you hold Wilfred for a while please, Godmother? I’m feeling a little lightheaded.”

Maleficent’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Please hold him for a bit.” Aurora lifted the sleeping baby up, nodding at Maleficent to take him from her. The Dark Fey eyed the child warily, as though expecting him to grow fangs and attack her at any moment, but she gingerly accepted the baby and cradled him awkwardly.

“He won’t break, you know.”

Maleficent grimaced. Aurora smiled encouragingly and sat back against the tree, sipping her water.

Wilfred stirred in his sleep, and Maleficent looked down in alarm. Not wanting to panic Aurora by appearing as utterly incompetent with her infant as she felt, she started gently bouncing him, and was astounded when he yawned and settled against her chest.

Well. That was something.

He was a sweet little fellow. Maleficent did not dislike children, contrary to her vehement assertion to a then-three-year-old Aurora nearly two decades earlier, but neither did she entirely _understand_ them, especially children this small. The ones who were able to talk were far easier.

She supposed that some of her apprehension around very small children was that they reminded her of Aurora at the same age, the time at which she had begun to realise just what she had actually done to the girl in cursing her. The years during which she came to love the Beastie, and in doing so, hate herself for allowing her hatred of Stefan to cause her to ruin the life of an innocent. Though the ensuing years had brought things to rights and now all was well, Maleficent could not help the lingering feeling of guilt that everything may well have ended very differently, had she not had an irresistible urge to kiss the cursed girl as she slept. It was a lynchpin moment, the very knife’s edge, a moment in time during which the fate of all who loved Aurora was decided.

It still astounded Maleficent that it was _her_ kiss which had broken the curse.

She shifted to sit beside Aurora, who smiled and leaned her head on her godmother’s shoulder. Unconsciously, Maleficent wrapped her wing around the young woman, drawing her into the soft, sweet-smelling feathers.

“Are you feeling any better, Beastie?”

“I’m less dizzy now, thankfully. Maybe going for a very long walk ten days after having a baby wasn’t such a good idea.”

“We’re not far from the castle now. As soon as we arrive, I want you to lie down and rest for a few hours.”

Aurora snuggled closer to Maleficent. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For taking care of me. Guiding me. Loving me. For teaching me how to be a mother.”

Maleficent let out a small huff of laughter. “I have _not_ taught you how to be a mother, Beastie. You had best not use my example if you plan to be a success at it.”

“Nonsense. You’re the best of mothers. You’ve always been there, looking out for me. I can’t think of a better example.”

“I certainly hope that you’ll prove a far better mother to Wilfred than I have ever been to you.”

“I’ll take at least as good. I _can’t_ get this wrong.” Aurora said, chewing on her lower lip.

“You won’t.”

“But if I do? He’s going to be the King of the Moors after me, and the King of Ulstead after Phillip. How many subjects will he have someday, relying upon him to make good decisions and to do the right thing? And that’s if I go ahead and abolish the monarchy in Perceforest – he could have had three kingdoms to rule otherwise. Four, had the monarchy of Nyrsta Vígi survived after King Hróaldr’s death. Potentially _four_ kingdoms, all expecting him to be their ruler. It’s not something that I even _considered_ before Phillip and I married.”

Maleficent considered Aurora’s words for a moment. She sighed deeply, and pulled the young woman even closer with her wing.

“You can only do the best that you can do, Beastie. There is so much in this world which is beyond our control, and all that we can really do is respond to it in the best way that we can. You have a good heart, and Phillip… has been known to be a reasonable creature, even if he _is_ a human. You are beginning with the best of intentions, and that is as good a start as any.” She smiled down at her goddaughter’s golden curls. “I have no doubt that your son will be a fine king. A good man. He has the best of examples in you.”

Aurora could not think of a response, but she wrapped an arm around Maleficent’s waist and squeezed her tightly. Maleficent tensed for a moment at the unexpected contact, but quickly relaxed into her daughter’s embrace.

A faint crunching of footsteps in the undergrowth suddenly became apparent from through the trees, growing steadily louder. Maleficent looked up. After two and a half decades, she would know the sound of that gait anywhere.

“We’re over here, Diaval.”

“No sneakin’ up on you, Mistress. I didn’t think I was _that_ loud.”

“You’re as quiet as a thunderstorm.”

“Ha! Sorry to break up such a lovely moment, but I was lookin’ for you. Got a bit of a problem over by the Fairy Mound, some of the pixies havin’ a wee bit of a squabble with a few of the young Dark Fey. Something about them tramplin’ on the flowers? Anyway, none of them are listenin’ to me tryin’ to sort it out. I did try. They’ll listen to you, though…” Diaval shrugged apologetically.

Maleficent nodded. “I’ll go immediately. Will you see Aurora and Wilfred to the castle please?”

“Of course, Mistress.” Maleficent handed him Aurora’s knapsack, which he flung carelessly over his shoulder, and then Wilfred, whom he took far more carefully.

With a brief smile at Aurora, Maleficent beat her mighty wings and took off for the Fairy Mound.

Diaval returned his attention to Aurora. “Come on, darlin’, let’s get you to the castle and settled in. You look a little pale. Has the wee fellow been keepin’ you up all night?”

Aurora laughed. “He’s very fond of three in the morning, but I can’t complain. I’ve had trouble sleeping for years, and Wilfred has all but cured my insomnia with sleep deprivation. I could fall asleep at just about any moment now! Not to mention that I could sleep through a thunderstorm.”

“Even a Diaval thunderstorm? Surely not!”

“Even a Diaval thunderstorm,” Aurora grinned, “I’ve had enchanted sleeps which weren’t as deep as the short bursts of sleep I’m getting these days.”

Diaval laughed, putting his arm around her shoulder, and together they made their way through the Moors to Aurora’s castle.

Maleficent landed at the Fairy Mound to the sounds of three irate pixies hurling insults at a group of Dark Fey youths, who were clearly terribly intimidated, based on their howling laughter.

“What is going on here?” she asked icily. Almost immediately, the laughter ceased and the grins on their faces died.

“Uh…”

“Diaval has just informed me that there is a disagreement of some sort, and that worse still, you were all being disrespectful to him in his attempts to negotiate.”

The pixies exchanged glances and bowed their heads in shame. The young Fey, however, were far less easily ashamed.

“Why would we listen to the bird man? He’s not one of us.” sneered a Desert Fey boy. The other four youths nodded and made noises of agreement.

“Not _one of you_? What does that matter? He is my companion, and my eyes and ears in the Moors when I cannot be present. You will respect Diaval as you would respect me.” Maleficent hissed, her eyes flashing green. The boy’s eyes widened and he froze.

A new voice joined the confrontation. “What’s this? Are you causing trouble, Loen?” Borra sauntered over and stood in the young Fey’s space, fixing him with an unblinking gaze. He narrowed his eyes and grunted, causing Loen to take a step back.

“They were stomping on the flowers! We told them to stop, but they _laughed_ at us and did it even more!” shrieked an indignant pixie. Spittle flew from her mouth as she raged. “No respect whatsoever!”

“Is this true?” Maleficent asked the young Dark Fey. Eyes darted about; shoulders slumped.

“Yes, Phoenix…” muttered one of them.

“ _Why?_ ”

They had no answer. Maleficent glared at the young ones, gritting her teeth. They were young, but not _that_ young – she had certainly had plenty of respect for both the environment and the other creatures in The Moors at their age. She had no understanding of why they would do something so wantonly destructive, and it enraged her.

“So fix it then.” Borra snapped, gesturing at the crushed flowers around them. “Get on with it.”

The young Fey acknowledged his words, some nodding, others hanging their heads or biting their lips. Silently, they began to move around the Fairy Mound, using their limited powers to put the damage right.

Maleficent turned to Borra and inclined her head in gratitude.

“Young ones, eh?” he commented with a grin. “We were never that young.”

“Speak for yourself.” Maleficent replied, raising an eyebrow. One of the youths looked up at her, snapping his attention back to the task at hand when their eyes met. She would have to get to the bottom of this deliberately offensive behaviour as soon as possible.

Borra tilted his head toward her, bringing her attention back to him. “Will you be coming to the Full Moon Gathering this month? I missed you there last time.”

“I was in Ulstead with Aurora. I may come this time, if nothing more pressing arises.”

“You should. Who knows, you might find yourself a mate. That Phoenix line is in need of some reinforcing.” Borra commented with a suggestive leer.

“I have no time for such things.”

“Not now, perhaps, but eventually.” Borra replied. “I can wait.” He winked at her and took off, flying straight upwards into the wispy white clouds.

 _He is certainly not shy in stating his intentions_ , thought Maleficent, though his candour made her vaguely uncomfortable, particularly as it was far from the first time that he had implied that he had intentions toward her at all. She was unaccustomed to potential suitors being so forthright – not that there had been _all_ that many in her life, she had to be honest.

She had no intention of allowing herself to fall in love with one like Borra. He was gruff and scruffy, showing little interest in personal grooming, to the detriment of his impressive wings. His demeanor was abrasive – possibly even more so than her own. Maleficent had to admit, however, that his heart was in the right place, and that as a leader, he was respected and powerful. His voice was a loud one, which is how the other Dark Fey heard him, but he had been known to speak with wisdom on occasion as well, which was why they listened.

She couldn’t allow herself to feel love for him. Accept him, certainly – she already considered Borra a friend, after all. But love? No. Love seldom ended well. She would not render herself vulnerable in that way again.

Did one have to love a mate, though? If the purpose of taking a mate was for procreation, was love strictly necessary so long as the mating act itself was completed?

Maleficent could imagine Borra as a potential mate under those circumstances. She certainly did not find him physically repulsive – quite the opposite, in fact, for all that he was rough and dishevelled, he was an attractive man – and so long as there was no strong emotion attached to it, she believed that she would be able to engage in mating behaviour with him. His presence evoked no strong feelings of revulsion, nor overwhelming feelings of the opposite variety. Her sentiments toward him were comfortingly neutral.

It made sense to consider him, though – he was strong, clever, and a leader among his people. He would no doubt sire strong, clever children who were born leaders, and combined with her own positive attributes, any offspring which they may create would undoubtedly prove remarkable. Aligning herself with another well-respected leader of the Dark Fey was a rational choice, if one were to use the value for the young who were born from such a mating as a measure, and the mating was solely for the purpose of producing the next generation.

Still, Maleficent found it disconcerting to contemplate allowing herself to trust a man enough to allow him that sort of access to her body. Love had little to do with it, really – it was more to do with whether she could rely upon him to not harm her.

A consideration for another time, perhaps. It was far too complicated a question anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a worldbuilding chapter, Diaval's story, and some background to Maleficent's Phoenixism as well. Also gratuitous Dad!Diaval because he's just so flipping adorkable.

It was chaos. Happy chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

It was the pixies causing most of the trouble, of course. They were kind creatures who meant well, but they were remarkably impatient with each other at the best of times.

An assortment of faeries from the length and breadth of the Moors filled the throne room of the Moorland Castle. Butterflies hovered about in the sweet-scented air, fluttering about the heads of the assembled crowd. Mushroom faeries perched on the shoulders of lofty Ents, the giant Tree Guardians of the Moors. Wallerbogs shyly peered around each other, wanting a better view, but hardly bold enough to move forward. Flower faeries in pastel shades of pink, yellow and orange flitted about Aurora’s throne, where she sat calmly, her little son in her arms.

Prince Wilfred lay wrapped in a soft white faerie-made blanket, woven from the finest spider-silk by Knotgrass and Thistlewit in a fit of excitement during the first weeks of Aurora’s pregnancy. He was wide awake, his puzzled newborn eyes staring in wonder at the strange assortment of creatures which steadily approached to coo over him. He kicked his little legs and squeaked, causing the elderly pixie above him to clasp her hands in delight and cluck adoringly.

Diaval stood to Aurora’s right like a sentinel, overseeing the well-wishers as they came up to meet the baby and keeping the line moving swiftly by sending the malingerers on their way.

The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting long rays of golden light through the large glass windows of the throne room. The crowd had not lessened in the hours since Aurora had begun her audience; if anything, the numbers of well-wishers had swelled as word had spread around the Moors of the return of the queen and the newborn prince.

Aurora smiled beatifically, delighted that her subjects were so thrilled to meet her son, but her exhaustion was evident in everything from her posture to the darkening shadows beneath her eyes. She needed to rest. Wilfred had begun to grizzle and fuss, rooting around at the front of her dress and clenching his little fists.

Diaval leaned over and murmured in her ear, “Is it time to send them away? I think that Wilfred has had about enough. And you look as though you’re about to drop yourself.”

Aurora nodded imperceptibly. It was getting late anyway.

Beside her, Diaval took a step forward and clapped his hands together loudly three times to draw the attention of the crowd. “Attention, Fair Folk! Thank you all for comin’ today to meet our little Prince Wilfred. I know that some of you haven’t had a chance to have a good look-see, but as you can probably hear, the poor wee mite is getting’ a bit fractious, and he needs his rest. So Her Majesty is goin’ to pop him into bed, and you’re all welcome to come back another time when he’s not so tired. Now scram please.” With that, Diaval made some elaborate shooing motions with his hands, beaming obnoxiously all the while. Though he detected some sullen mutterings from some of the crowd, the visitors dispersed and the throne room quickly emptied.

Aurora sighed and closed her eyes, leaning back into her throne. Her entire body felt as though it had been cast of lead.

“Come on, it’s bedtime.” Diaval insisted.

“You’re not my mother.” Aurora muttered sleepily.

“No, but I am your father. I might not be as scary as Maleficent, but I can be every bit as stubborn and bossy if I want to be. Upstairs to bed, young lady.”

Aurora chuckled, forcing her weary eyes open. “Well, when you put it that way, Father…”

* * *

Maleficent landed at the doors to the throne room and looked inside. The lofty room was deserted, lit only by the pale light of the newly-risen moon. She crossed the room and opened the doors at the far end, revealing a large antechamber which contained the main staircase of the castle. It dominated the centre of the castle, winding its way in a reversed Fibonacci spiral up to Aurora’s chambers. Warm candlelight spilled from the doors to her rooms, which had been left open a crack.

Ignoring the stairs, Maleficent took flight and landed neatly on the first floor landing. She could hear the baby whimpering irritably from the other side of the doors, and the clear sound of Aurora’s voice gently soothing him. Quietly, Maleficent crept up to the sliver of light emanating from the room and peered within.

Aurora sat up in her delicate, woven-vine bed, clad in a loose cream nightgown. She held a fussing Wilfred to her breast, but he seemed more interested in throwing his little head back in frustration than feeding. She could see that Aurora was becoming equally frustrated, her eyes almost puffy with fatigue and shimmering with exasperated tears.

“Here, let me try and settle him.” came Diaval’s voice from the other side of the room. Maleficent had not realised that he was there. His footsteps echoed on the floorboards as he made his way to Aurora. “Lie down and rest. You don’t have to do this all by yourself. I might not be any better at this than you are, but at least if I take him for a bit and tell him a story or somethin’, you can have a little snooze. I think you need it, darlin’.”

“Thank you Diaval.” Aurora replied wearily, handing her fretting baby over to the raven man. She pulled the coverlet over her legs and lay back against the pillows.

Diaval held Wilfred against his shoulder, patting the little boy’s back and clucking like a mother hen. “What’s all that fussin’ about, now? Somethin’ botherin’ you, little fellow? Now, now, it’s time for sleep, and you’re goin’ to be a good lad and sleep all night for your poor mama, aren’t you?”

The baby squirmed and whined, then let out an almightly belch, spitting up down the length of Diaval’s arm.

“Bleugh.” he commented, screwing up his nose. He swiped one of Wilfred’s clean napkins from a chest beneath the window and used it to wipe the milky vomit from his shirt. “Lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m sorry Diaval…”

“Ah, these things happen. Could’ve been worse – it could’ve been the other end.”

Aurora giggled sleepily. Wilfred had stopped grizzling after being winded, and was now blinking slowly against Diaval’s shoulder.

“Tell us a story, Diaval.” Aurora murmured.

“What sort of story? I don’t know all that many fairy tales and the like.”

“Tell us a true story, then. Tell us about your life before you met Godmother.”

“Ah, some of it doesn’t make for a nice tale, Aurora.”

“Tell us anyway.” came Maleficent’s voice from the doorway.

“Godmother! You were gone for longer than I expected.”

“A simple situation which was overcomplicated by rashness and ego.” Maleficent sniffed. “Come on, Diaval. Your voice is soothing when it isn’t being used for complaining. Tell Aurora a story and put her to sleep.”

Diaval shrugged, rocking the baby. He shifted Wilfred into a cradle hold so that he could speak directly to the boy. “All right then. This, young man, is the tale of how yours truly came to be in your life, in an indirect sort of fashion. Are you listenin’? Good.”

Wilfred gurgled, and Diaval smiled down at him as he began to speak, his voice a low rasp in the dwindling candlelight. 

“Once upon a time,” he began, “Many lifetimes ago, a little raven chick hatched from bluish-green egg to the west of the Moors, in a nest woven from sticks and twigs, lined with the wool of the nearby sheep and fragrant grass from the meadows. He squawked for food as soon as his down was dry, and stumbled around the nest over the tops of his sisters.

The little ones grew in size and strength, as their parents flew far and wide in search of food. Láidir, their father, was a large raven who had a toe missin' on his left foot from an encounter with a hungry wolf one winter. He was strong and brave, and his son thought the world of him. Their mother’s name was Sciobtha, and she flew as swiftly and cleverly as her name implied. This was their third clutch together, and they had never lost a single hatchlin’ of the nine they now had.” Diaval paused, his expression betraying his pride in his parents’ achievement. Maleficent slowly entered the room and settled herself on the end of Aurora’s bed as the raven man continued.

“When the chicks had survived a sennight and their personalities had begun to emerge, Láidir and Sciobtha found names for them. The eldest of their daughters was named Álainn, for she was as beautiful as the dawnin’ sky. Their second daughter they called Lonracha, the sheen of her emergin’ feathers so startlin’ that no other name could have fitted better. For their youngest daughter, they chose the name Séiseach, to honour the melody of her song.

The final chick, the last of the clutch to hatch, was the only son among them. A terror of a hatchlin’, stompin’ about all over the other three and squawkin’ louder than all of them combined, they had thought to call him Dathúil at first, for he was the handsomest of all. But as he grew, and his Ma and Da came to see what a devil he was, no other name could truly suit him but the one his nature chose for him. They called him Diaval.

Time passed, and the chicks grew their flight feathers and fledged. They stayed around their parents at first, learnin’ the ways of findin’ food and avoidin’ danger, but danger couldn’t always be avoided.

As winter fell upon the land, food became scarce, and the young ravens became reckless in their hunger. Séiseach lost her life to the jaws of a wolf as she picked the flesh from the carcass of a rabbit, and little Álainn slowly faded away from starvation, until she too lay still and silent in the snow.

Lonracha and Diaval survived their first winter, and the winters which followed. Lonracha found a mate and left for the west, in search of greener grass and bluer skies. Diaval never saw his sister again.”

Diaval paused, sighing at the memory of long-forgotten grief. Aurora’s eyes shone with unshed tears as she lay back against the pillows, anticipating the rest of her godfather’s tale.

“Láidir and Sciobtha had one more clutch before Diaval left their territory for good. Only three little ones that time, two lads and a lass – Léisciúil, Sciathánach and Ciallmhar. Diaval stayed to see his brothers and sister born, and then flew east in search of a mate of his own. He flew over the Moors, knowin’ that ravens seldom found their homes there, until he reached the kingdom of Perceforest.

For two years, Diaval spent his days in search of food and in want of a mate with whom to share his life. Seasons came and went, but no she-raven was clever or beautiful or swift of wing enough to catch his eye. He spent his days alone, and he was very lonely.”

“Oh Diaval…” Aurora murmured sadly. He looked up at her for a moment, smiling a tiny, reassuring smile, and returned his attention to the baby.

“One cold afternoon, as the sun began to gradually sink toward the west and the light started turnin’ golden, Diaval found himself in a farmer’s field. The farmer was growin' corn, and he was hungry after another lean winter. He landed in between the rows of corn and began to peck at the tough ears, snapping up the beetles and bugs which were flushed out as he moved the stalks.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of a dog barkin', comin' closer and closer to him. Diaval flapped his wings and began to fly out of the field, but he had been so distracted by eatin' that he had not noticed the farmer approachin'. The farmer ambushed him, and threw a heavy net over him as he tried to fly away.

Diaval flapped his wings desperately, callin' and squawkin' in terror, but he knew that there was no escape. The net was too heavy and the dogs were too close. He saw the farmer comin' towards him with a club in his hand, and Diaval knew that he was livin’ the last moments of his life.” He shook his head a little, remembering the feeling of facing his own mortality.

“But then, without warnin’, he felt a tinglin’ within himself, a pulling on his skin and a tuggin’ in his bones. His legs grew longer, and his wings turned into a pair of arms with hands on the end of them. His feathers disappeared within him, replaced by pale, scarred skin, and his beak became a pointy human nose.

The farmer, thinkin’ that Diaval was the very demon that his name implied, took fright and ran away, taking his dogs with him.”

Pausing, the raven man looked up at his Mistress on the bed, an affectionate smile spreading across his face. The corners of Maleficent’s mouth turned up ever so slightly in response. Their first meeting. She had responded to his plight without thinking at the time, though she had seldom come to regret it since. Maleficent hadn’t realised until this moment, however, that Diaval still remembered every detail of that day. 

Laying on the bed, Aurora smiled as her eyes drifted closed against her will. She knew this part of the story, and she was glad, in her final moments of coherent thought as sleep claimed her, that her precious child would know it as well.

Diaval returned his attention to Wilfred as he continued softly, “Diaval stood and looked at himself, wonderin’ what on Earth had taken away his beautiful feathers and left him in this pallid man-skin. And then there she was. Emergin’ from the tall grass like a vision from the afterlife, an angel walkin’ the Earth. Eyes sparklin’ like emeralds and a pair of horns on her like a crown. She’d saved him. Not just saved his life, mind, but given him a whole new one at the same time. Nothin’ would ever be the same again.

And Diaval, in part because he was grateful to her, and in part because ravens have their pride and a life debt is a life debt, but mostly because he just couldn’t imagine livin’ his life without this haughty, beautiful faerie in it now that he’d met her, promised her that he would forever do whatever she needed.

And I did. And I do. And I will for the rest of my days, little one.” Diaval murmured, kissing the sleeping child’s little brow and laying him carefully in the woven-vine cradle. Wilfred’ eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t wake. Beside him on the bed, Aurora had succumbed to slumber as well, her breathing slow and steady, her lips curved into a peaceful smile.

“You have quite the touch.” Maleficent commented, arising from the bed and approaching him.

“Endless talent, Mistress. Surely you should know that by now?” Diaval smirked.

“You’ve never told me that story. Your origins. How you came to be in that field that day.” 

He shrugged. “I suppose it never came up. We didn’t talk much to begin with anyway, did we? You asked me after a time if you’d taken me from a family, and you hadn’t, so anythin’ before that didn’t matter much.”

“That is why you hate wolves so much.” Maleficent said. It was not a question.

“Yes, Mistress. I’ll be a wolf if that’s what you need of me, but I’ve seen what a wolf can do to a bird. My Da had a toe missin’, and he was lucky – he lived to tell the tale. My sister, though…” Diaval pursed his lips, “My sister, I saw it. I saw it all. I was callin’ to her to fly away, but she was starvin’. We all were. She didn’t want to chance that the wolf would take the rabbit, but it did anyway, after it tore her apart. Blood all over the snow. The metallic smell of it in the air. I’ll never forget it, Mistress.” He closed his eyes at the thought of crimson staining the stark white snow, and black feathers coming to rest upon it. Sweet Séiseach, who never stopped singing. Nothing more was left of her.

Maleficent took a step closer to him, her eyes soft with compassion.

“I’ll never forget any of them, though they’ll all be long gone by now. Lonracha’s children are probably long gone by now.” His eyes shone with unshed tears as they met hers. “Not that I ever met them anyway.”

His Mistress stared at the floor and bit her lip, saying nothing. After several long seconds which felt like a lifetime, she forced herself to look at him again. “I’m sorry.” she whispered.

“No, Mistress, you have nothin’ to apologise for-”

“I changed you against your will. I took away any chance that you may have had to reconnect with your family, and now you never will, because there is little chance that they are still alive after twenty three years.”

“No, Mistress. No. You saved me. I would’ve died that day, beaten to death by a farmer and ripped to shreds by his dogs, if you hadn’t come along and changed me. I never would have seen my family again regardless.” A tremor found its way into Diaval’s voice as he continued, “You _saved_ me. You gave me this life, and a new family. You made me more than I could ever have been before. Don’t ever apologise, Mistress, because you have nothin’ to be sorry for.”

He gazed intensely into her eyes, willing her to see herself through his own. Guilt was still a constant companion to her, and he wondered if she would ever truly forgive herself for her past mistakes.

“You freed me, Mistress. Years ago, when you made Aurora Queen of The Moors. I chose to stay with you then and I choose to stay with you now. And I’ll always choose to stay with you.”

Maleficent said nothing for several long moments which felt to Diaval to be as long as years. Something passed between them; no more than a look, the hint of a feeling, promises unspoken and held close to the chest for fear of releasing them into the world; but to each of them it felt as though the very earth was shifting beneath their feet.

Terror gripped Maleficent as her unconscious mind processed the implication of Diaval’s words, but that terror was tempered with another, far less frightening feeling entirely – warmth and light and the feeling of coming home after a long time away. She opened her mouth to say _something_ ; though just what, precisely, she had no idea.

Without warning, a raucous yell echoed through the open window, shattering the perfect clarity of their shared moment. Both heads snapped toward the sound, and Diaval strode two paces to the opening to stick his head out for a look.

As he reached the window, another equally loud voice joined the first, which had itself begun to laugh uproariously. “They’re two Dark Fey.” Diaval reported. “Young ones, by the looks of them. Teenagers bein’ silly.”

He stepped aside as Maleficent joined him at the window. “They’re making enough noise to wake the dead, never mind the living.” she snarled. Stepping up on to the windowsill, she pushed off and into the air, her glorious wings arching and slowing her descent into the Moorland Castle courtyard, to where the two young Dark Fey had commenced a friendly wrestling match. One was in a tight headlock, but refused to yield, though both of them were laughing good-naturedly.

Diaval watched as Maleficent scolded them thoroughly, a delighted smirk on his face.

“You’d better be behavin’ yourself, young Wilfred. Wouldn’t want to get on your grandmother’s bad side. She’s a formidable creature, you know.” he remarked softly, turning to the sleeping prince who snuffled quietly in the cradle. He went back to the child and brushed his lips against the boy’s soft little brow. “Goodnight, wee lad. And goodnight to you, fledgling.” Diaval added, crossing the room to place an identical kiss on Aurora. “Sweet dreams, little ones.”

He tiptoed out of the room, pulling the door shut carefully behind him. The noise outside had stopped, though he thought that he heard a vague whimpering in place of it. 

Diaval made his way to the castle entrance and through to the courtyard, where he found Maleficent still lecturing the two young Dark Fey. Both were cowering, nodding frantically, and apologising profusely to her.

Maleficent took a step back and glowered at the young ones with a raised eyebrow. A tilt of her head skyward saw them dismissed, and they wasted no time in flying as far away from her as possible.

“Did either of them wet themselves?” Diaval asked as he approached her.

Maleficent looked amused. “Alas, no.”

“You’re losin’ your touch, Mistress.”

“I knew I was spending far too much time being nice to everybody. You’re a terrible influence. I’m going to be wearing blush pink and kissing babies next.”

“Ah, nonsense. You already kiss babies. Well, Wilfred. I know there’s still a big bad scary faerie in there somewhere, who would still be _terrifyin’_ in a frilly pink dress.” Diaval narrowed his eyes and jerked his head birdishly at her, as though scouring her being for a sign of evil. He wiggled his eyebrows at her sassily. “Nightmare-inducin’, even.”

“Ha!”

“So what were those young’uns making such a racket about?”

“Youthful jubilance, combined with far too much Moorland springwine. Silly creatures. I am going to have to do something with the young ones, although I can’t think what. Those two were also involved in the altercation with the pixies earlier, though they were not the only ones. Spring is here and most creatures of the world are becoming rather silly because of it, but we can’t have certain denizens of the Moors disrespecting the other ones.”

“Ah, we all go a bit silly in spring, Mistress. Even you.” Diaval said with a wink. “We’ll sort it out, though. You, and me and Aurora, once she’s had a chance to rest. Anyway, if a few young’uns bein’ a bit rude and disrespectful is the worst that we’ve got to deal with, then we’re doin’ pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

* * *

A tall bonfire dominated the clearing beneath the bright full moon, which cast such brilliant light that the darkness became dusk once more.

Maleficent reclined against the sturdy trunk of a centuries-old oak, nestled in between the large roots which had broken through the mossy ground long ago. She had tucked her long black skirts around her knees, and she dug her bare toes into the soft ground. Beside her sat a basket woven from dried river reeds and lined with fresh grass. Diaval had meticulously filled it to overflowing with grapes, black nuts and berries over the course of the afternoon, grinning proudly as he presented her with his bounty as the Gathering had commenced. He did take such good care of her.

The Full Moon Gathering was a monthly tradition of the Dark Fey. Although it had been long established on the ancestral island, the Gathering had taken on even greater importance since the Fey had spread their wings and moved across the near world. Coming together once a month for an informal gathering allowed friends to keep in touch, families to reconnect, and news to be shared. The Dark Fey ate and drank, danced and laughed, told stories and sang songs together, before returning to their respective homes. It was always a well-attended occasion, and one which Maleficent, in spite of herself, tended to enjoy.

She watched as Diaval picked his way through the throng of Dark Fey, ducking and weaving his way around dozens of enormous pairs of wings with the same tacit skill which he displayed when soaring through the skies. In one hand he held a cup of springwine, and another was clutched against his chest with his wrist. His other hand was firmly closed, and numerous black legs flailed wildly between his fingers.

Diaval handed Maleficent one of the cups and sat beside her against the tree, tipping something from his fist into his mouth and crunching it loudly.

“Oh,” he said, as though remembering himself, “I’m bein’ rude. Beetle?” He held out his clenched hand. Dozens of tiny legs wriggled wildly within it, trying desperately to escape.

Maleficent gave him a tight smile. “No, thank you.” 

It was fascinating how some of Diaval’s raven traits remained true, irrespective of the shape that he was in, and his predilection for eating insects was one of those. He liked that they wriggled in his mouth, he’d told her once. It tickled. (Fortunately, his taste for carrion in his human form had diminished considerably some twenty years earlier, after what they had come to think of as the ‘Rotting Mouse Incident’, which left him curled up and begging for death for three full days as he purged continuously from both ends. After it was over, and Maleficent had finished berating Diaval for eating the mouse in the first place – against her explicit advice, no less – they had agreed to never speak of the incident again.)

Maleficent popped a black nut into her mouth and watched as two Dark Fey children, maybe around eight years old, started dancing an improvised jig by the fire, making up the steps as they went along. Several other children of a similar age stood in a circle around them, clapping a beat and chanting. Their laughter echoed through the glen over the crackling of the fire. From the corner of her eye, Maleficent could see Diaval’s crooked grin at their antics. He was always drawn to children; playful, innocent creatures much like himself, she surmised.

“Mistress?” Diaval said, breaking the companionable lull between them.

“Hm?” she replied, popping another grape between her crimson lips. She leaned back against the tree and tilted her head toward him.

“I was talkin’ to Shrike earlier – scary woman, I wouldn’t want to cross her in battle.”

“She’s quite formidable, yes, but I’ve seen her with the young ones. She can be quite gentle when she chooses to be.” Maleficent remarked, a tiny smile flitting across her lips as she thought of the woman who, in some ways, was so like herself.

“No doubt. Thing is, she was tellin’ me somethin’ that had me confused, and I wanted to ask you about it. She said that you’re all – the Dark Fey, that is – your kind began with the Phoenix. She started your race, as it were.” Diaval shifted and sat up straighter against the tree, turning toward his Mistress.

“That’s right. Why is that confusing? I thought that you knew that already.”

“I did, more or less. What’s confusin’ is that she also said just about in the next breath that you’re the _last_ descendent of the Phoenix. Can’t be both, Mistress. It doesn’t make sense.”

Maleficent smiled indulgently at his bewilderment. She had been just as confused until Udo had taken an afternoon to explain it all to her some months earlier. She was actually a little surprised that a creature as astute as Diaval had taken so long to see the point of confusion.

“We are all descended from the Phoenix, if one were to go back far enough. The only difference is that I am the last descendent in the maternal line, and that is why I have far stronger magic than the rest of the Dark Fey. The power of the Phoenix, the power of life and death and rebirth, is one that is passed only from a mother to her children.”

“So it came to you through your mother?”

“Hermia. Yes. And from her mother, and hers, all the way back to the beginning of our kind.” Maleficent tilted her chin to indicate a scantily-clad Forest Fey sitting by the bonfire, who was engaged in a profound discussion with the attractive Tundra Fey lass beside her. “Do you see her, over there?”

“Which one?”

“The Forest Fey. The one making doe-eyes like a lovelorn adolescent.”

“What about her?”

“Her name is Olita. Apparently, according to Udo, she is my closest living relative. Some degree of cousin – her great grandmother and my own were sisters. One sister had a daughter – my grandmother Amarantha – and the other sister had two sons. They both had formidable powers, apparently, but neither were able to pass them on to their children. One son had a daughter, who in turn had Olita. She has no greater power than the rest of the Dark Fey. The maternal line was broken, as it has been in every other family excepting my own.”

Diaval nodded in understanding.

“Which is why,” Maleficent continued, “Some of the more forward Fey have suggested that I would be wise to take a mate.” She paused as Diaval choked on a grape.

“Suggested?” he repeated in a strangled tone, thumping his chest to dislodge the food. What did she mean by ‘suggested’? Inasmuch as Diaval was aware that someday, the question of his Mistress taking a mate would arise, he had not expected such a discussion quite yet.

“Suggested in no uncertain terms, in some respects. A few have been merely hanging around, hoping to be seen, but I have had three approach me directly.” She turned to face him properly. He struggled to read her expression – was it amusement? Teasing? Delight in being desired? She certainly did not seem upset by it, and that concerned him more than he was willing to admit.

“Who? When?” Diaval spluttered indignantly. He sat up taller and arched his upper body towards her, trying to appear larger than he really was. He clenched his jaw, his eyebrow darting upwards in suspicion.

“Calm down, birdy. Swallow that grape properly or I’m going to have magic it from your throat and embarrass you in front of the Dark Fey.”

Diaval scowled and swallowed the remnants of the grape.

“Over the past month, since we returned from the castle. Garin, one of the Jungle Fey, and Ruwa, who is of the Desert, both approached me once each. Bold creatures, the pair of them, but I doubt that they will try again.” Maleficent smirked.

“And the third? Who was the third one?”

Maleficent turned and regarded him carefully. “You seem far too concerned by this, Diaval.”

“Just keepin’ an eye out for you, Mistress. If you have them botherin’ you…” he stammered, hoping that she would read less into his words than was actually present.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing, and turned back to the bonfire.

“The third was Borra. He has been… far more persistent. But then, that is Borra, isn’t it? I am doing nothing to encourage his attention, and yet he continues to attempt to bestow it.”

Diaval’s eyes scoured the assembled Fey until he spied the Desert Fey some distance away. He was surrounded by a group of adolescent males who were watching in rapture; his posture indicating that he was midway through regaling them with a tale of war and reckless bravery. He stomped and roared, gesticulating into the air as he mimed his way through his chronicle of a battle long since fought. The young ones hung upon his every word, the fools. 

Still, Diaval trusted that his Mistress was not as foolish as these young ones, to be taken in by a posturing braggart. For all of Borra’s redeeming qualities, insofar as Diaval would admit that he had them, he would still make her a terrible mate. Her limited experience in intimacy had left her anxious and untrusting in matters of the heart, and Diaval doubted that Borra would think to treat her with the gentleness and understanding that she needed from a potential lover. It pained him to think of the way in which Borra would take her; no doubt roughly, and without any regard for her deepest fears. For all that she had experienced, his Mistress deserved far better than that.

She was far too clever to be taken in by him, Diaval decided. It didn’t mean for a moment that he intended to be anything more than barely civil to Borra henceforth – he had no right to be harassing her, after all – but Diaval felt that the actual likelihood of Maleficent agreeing to mate Borra was slim. Slim enough that Diaval felt it was entirely appropriate for him to make a joke of it.

“Hmph. That’s just what the world needs, an army of tiny Maleficents with your power and Borra’s personality.” He flashed his Mistress a lopsided grin, and she let out a tiny bark of laughter.

“Well, far be it for me to unleash such an evil upon the world.” she replied with a wicked grin. Diaval’s smile spread right the way across his face, and he leaned back into the tree. The bonfire crackled and the laughing chatter of the Dark Fey fell around them like rain in the night.

“Still, though,” he said, suddenly serious, “If you need me to, you know, be a wolf and chase him off…” he turned and looked into her eyes, black meeting golden green, “I’d do that. I’d do that if you needed me to. I wouldn’t even complain about it. Well, much.”

Maleficent smiled gently at him. “I doubt that will be necessary, Diaval, but thank you.”

Diaval watched as a thought crossed Maleficent’s mind, causing her to tilt her head and raise an eyebrow in apparent mirth. “I suppose I could turn you into a Dark Fey and tell them all that you’re my mate. That would probably keep them away.”

He chuckled nervously. She was joking, of course – it was very typical of Maleficent’s desert-dry sense of humour – but he couldn’t help the flurry of images in his mind at her words. To be named her mate, officially, instead of this approximation of a _something_ which they had had for decades now… he couldn’t imagine a greater joy. He would be her mate in a heartbeat if she’d have him. His raven heart, pure in thought and deed, had chosen her years ago. 

If only she wasn’t joking.

He bit his lip, struggling to fill what was now an uncomfortable silence. “C-could you do that, though?” he asked.

“Could I do _what_?” came the sharp reply. Perhaps she had realised that her joke was not so much of a joke as it was an elephant in the clearing.

“Um, turn me into a Dark Fey? Are you actually able to _do_ that?”

She regarded him for a moment. “I honestly don’t know. It’s not actually occurred to me to try before.” She sighed. “And if I am to be entirely honest about my own selfishness, I would not have tried before I had my wings returned to me.”

Diaval nodded, understanding completely. “It would have hurt you far too much to give me what you’d lost.”

“Exactly. I suppose that because I would never have considered doing it anyway, I never really gave it a great deal of thought.”

Maleficent curled up against the tree and hugged her knees, staring pensively into the fire.

“Even if I had, though, I may not have had the ability. Dark Fey are magical creatures. It would take far more effort to change a non-magical creature into a magical one than it takes to change a non-magical creature into other non-magical creatures.”

“But now, though? Could you now? Ever since you… died…” Diaval swallowed hard at the memory of his deep, consuming grief, however temporary it had been, “And were reborn, you’ve been more powerful than ever. Could you do it now? I quite like the idea of having hands and wings and a mouth to speak all in the same shape.”

“I could try, if you would like me to. Not here, though. Not now. I don’t want to call attention to it. We can try it tomorrow, somewhere away from prying and spying eyes.” She stood and picked up the empty fruit basket.

"Are we goin'?"

"You can stay, if you would like."

"I'm good. Let's go."

“Maleficent,” came a voice from behind them. 

Maleficent turned back. “Borra. Are you having a pleasant evening?” she asked, pointedly refusing to look at Diaval to ascertain that she was ‘small talking’ correctly. Surely it wasn’t _that_ important a skill?

Borra flashed her a charming smile. “It’s suddenly gotten better.”

Maleficent raised an eyebrow.

“I needed to speak to you regarding some of the young Fey,” Borra continued, indicating the group that he had been with earlier.

Diaval had already tuned out the exchange. He was standing behind Borra, glaring at the back of his head and trying to will his horns to catch fire. He was in no doubt that ‘the young Fey’ were a convenient excuse for the man to speak to his Mistress, and that what Borra had to discuss was neither important enough nor strictly necessary to bother Maleficent with.

He peered over the top of the Desert Fey’s left wing, catching his Mistress’ eye. He frowned, and flicked his eyes to Borra, before opening his mouth and sticking his tongue out to mime a wolf panting. He wiggled his eyebrows at her and imitating howling at the full Moon, nodding and indicating himself. He held up his hands, talons extended, to emulate bear claws and stomped from foot to foot, pretending to roar, nodding enthusiastically to indicate his willingness to be changed.

He could see that Maleficent was struggling to keep a straight face. Her eyes were glued to Borra, which was delighting him no end as he pontificated about the young Fey and her responsibilities as the spiritual leader of their kind, but her lips were pursed in a way which made her look somewhat peeved and she was blinking far more quickly than was typical for her. Diaval, knowing her inside out after two decades, was well aware that she was trying desperately not to laugh.

Of course, no raven worth his salt would back down in this situation.

He redoubled his efforts to convince her to change him, miming a dog scratching behind its ear, pretending to beg, widening his eyes and pouting like a pathetic puppy looking for a treat. Some of the surrounding Fey had noticed his personal pantomime. Giggles and titters surrounded him like gentle music.

Borra was oblivious.

Maleficent, however, was starting to turn a delightful shade of scarlet, tears beginning to leak from the corners of her eyes. Her shoulders shook from the effort of suppressing her laughter. Without warning, she interrupted Borra and choked out, “Yes, of course, let me know what you’d like me to do. I’ll speak to you about it in greater detail tomorrow. Is that acceptable?”

“Of course.” Borra replied, bowing his head and smiling charismatically at her again. He turned and walked back to where the young Fey were still congregated on the other side of the bonfire.

Maleficent narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, then turned on her heel and stalked off toward her nest without acknowledging Diaval. He followed her through the trees regardless.

“You are a terrible creature.” his Mistress scolded him when they had moved far enough from the Dark Fey to be out of earshot.

“I’m a _wonderful_ creature. No appreciation whatsoever. Here I am, tryin’ to save you from that salivatin’ man-beast, and all you can do is whine because you wound up lookin’ like a leakin’ tomato.”

She turned to him with a skeptical look on her face. “I don’t need you to save me, Diaval. I can deal with the ‘salivating man-beast’ – that’s rich, coming from one who is quite literally a man-beast – on my own.”

Diaval snorted. “I’m just sayin’ that it would have helped, Mistress.”

“I doubt it. Wolves and bears and the like do not frighten Borra.” Maleficent paused, a tiny devilish glint in her startling eyes. She leaned closer to her companion with a conspiratorial smile. “Were I to change you into a rabbit, on the other hand…”

“A rabbit, Mistress?” Diaval queried.

“A rabbit.” she confirmed with a whisper. “He’s _terrified_ of them.” She held a slender finger to her lips in a shushing motion, winking at Diaval’s incredulous expression, before turning and walking away.

He let out a single ‘HA!’, grinning like a madman, before setting off after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will get to the action soon! We'll be on to the christening in the next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I said we'd get to the christening in this chapter, but it was running long again, so it's another split chapter to avoid a monstrously long one (even this half-chapter runs to 6000 words). The christening will most definitely occur in the next chapter.

Phillip sighed, running his hand across his forehead. He had been sitting there at the long dining table for upwards of three hours, as advisors and planners and all manner of stewards with very precise and specific roles and responsibilities confused him with an overload of information. “All right, can we sum this up in five sentences or less? I don’t really need to know the exact significance of each and every part of the christening so much as I need to know what is going to happen and when, and how best to avoid accidentally offending any of the guests.”

He envied Aurora. She was equally involved in the planning and discussion, but she also had to leave to feed Wilfred whenever the growing babe decided that he was hungry again, which was quite often these days. She had already been able to excuse herself from the room three times.

His rear was completely numb. Phillip shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying not to wince at the tiny stabs of pain which came with the movement. Above and opposite him, perched on the uppermost windowsill, Diaval made a chittering sound which Phillip chose to interpret as sympathy. How the raven had been up there for three hours without anyone other than Aurora and himself noticing his presence, Phillip could not fathom. Still, it felt like solidarity, and it meant that Maleficent would also be privy to any plans made without having to be physically present at the meeting. She had been rather reticent about the christening preparations in general, and Phillip could not help but be relieved that she had sent Diaval along in her stead. It simplified things.

“Simply put, Your Highness, the actual christening itself will be a relatively quiet affair, owing to the capacity of the new chapel. Those present will be yourself and Her Majesty Queen Aurora, His Majesty King John, Her Majesty Queen Ingrith, _if_ you so choose to have her there – I, personally, would not, but it is not my place to make such decisions – and the godparents. Now, as far as the godparents are concerned-”

“What about Aurora’s parents?” Phillip interjected.

The steward grimaced, then arranged his face into a polite mask. “Under the circumstances, particularly in light of Maleficent’s _history_ , I would advise against her being at the christening in case-”

“Lawrence! Maleficent and Diaval _will_ be present at the christening. They’re Aurora’s _parents_ , for heaven’s sake! We absolutely cannot just _not_ invite them! What happened at Aurora’s own christening is completely irrelevant. It was decades ago, and the reasons behind what happened no longer exist. Maleficent would never hurt Wilfred. They are invited, and this will not be discussed any further.”

Above him, Diaval let out a triumphant “ _Caw!_ ” and fluffed his feathers.

Lawrence turned and tilted his head toward the window. “Ah. I see. Perhaps we can return to this point later.” He returned his attention to Phillip and continued, as though an avian eavesdropper who reported to a powerful faerie was an entirely mundane and expected discovery.

“The godparents, of course, are chosen from the Lords and Ladies of Ulstead, based upon their proximity to the Royal Family, personal loyalty, the loyalty of their family in previous generations, and a variety of other discretionary criteria of no real import to yourself. I will provide you and Her Majesty with an approved list from which to select them. You may also choose to include a godparent from Her Majesty Queen Aurora’s home kingdom, if you so desire.”

“A faerie?”

“From Perceforest, Your Highness. Not the Moors.”

Phillip blinked at Lawrence irritably. He was an excellent steward, but a truly insufferable snob of a human being. Lawrence continued without so much as a twitch.

“Following the christening, there will be a reception in the grounds of the castle, in accordance with your wishes and those of Her Majesty Queen Aurora. _Informal_.” the man said through his teeth. “The guest list for the reception will be more flexible, given the size of the grounds. The invitations will be sent on the morrow.”

As Lawrence finished, the large door to the dining room creaked open, and Aurora slipped back into the room with an apologetic smile.

“Have I missed anything important?”

“I can fill you in later.” Phillip replied.

Lawrence, however, refused to be dissuaded from another attempt at swaying the royal couple to his point of view. “Your Majesty, some of the Lords have expressed their concern regarding the presence of your… _mother_ … at the christening. In light of her actions during your own christening, and after her action against our own Queen Ingrith, perhaps it would be best if-”

“If _what_?” Aurora asked, her expression a mirror of Maleficent’s at her most incensed. “Are you suggesting that we exclude my mother?”

“Well, Your Majesty, it may be the most appropriate-”

“ _No_.” Aurora said firmly, “Absolutely not. I will not hear another word on the subject.”

“Perhaps if she we willing to turn the Queen back into a human…”

“I have spoken to her about it, and her response was that she would consider it if Queen Ingrith no longer posed a threat to our family or to the Moors.”

This was not entirely the truth, but Aurora was unwilling to delve into the minute details of what had been a rather tense discussion with Maleficent some weeks earlier. As Maleficent’s initial response was “Why on _Earth_ would I do that?”, and only degenerated from there, paraphrasing the outcome seemed to Aurora to be the most sensible option. Maleficent _had_ , after all, relented in the end, and agreed to think about it.

Lawrence regarded Aurora for a moment, then nodded once in acknowledgement. He had expressed the concerns of the Lords, and he could do no more than that. He returned his attention to the pile of papers in his arms and continued as though he had not just been scolded by a twenty two year old Queen.

“Are you expecting a representative from Nyrsta Vígi?”

“I don’t know.” Phillip replied, “The monarchy no longer exists – the kingdom is now overseen by an Arbiter – and I have no remaining relatives there. It is possible that the Arbiter may send a representative, though, given that Mother was once their princess. Had events unfolded differently, Wilfred would have been the heir presumptive to Nyrsta Vígi – not that anyone would really want to live and rule there, it’s a horribly cold and barren place, I’m told. Far to the north. Most of the kingdom is uninhabited because it’s just too cold for anyone to live there. The whole population lives in villages along the southern border near the Moors.”

“What happened?” Aurora asked him quietly.

Phillip held up a finger to Lawrence. “A minute, please?” The steward nodded and stepped back from the table, scowling as Diaval flew down from the windowsill and landed on the table. He hopped over to Phillip and Aurora with interest.

“My mother told you some of it, didn’t she?”

“She said that her father hoped for peace between his kingdom and the Moors, and that he sent her brother as an envoy, but he never returned. She assumed that he had been killed.”

“She likes to tell the story that way.” Phillip commented doubtfully.

“You say that as though she’s lying.”

Phillip sighed, and lowered his voice even further. “I met Mother’s father, King Hroáldr, once. When his son disappeared, he just collapsed, and eventually he was overthrown, but he wasn’t killed. Just run out of the kingdom and replaced by an Arbiter. He came here, seeking asylum.”

“Was it granted?” Aurora asked.

Phillip bit his lip. “He came to my father first. I was only young – maybe five years old at the time. He sought an audience with Father on a day when I was with him in the throne room. Grandfather begged Father to allow him to stay in Ulstead, and Father wanted to allow it, but he told Grandfather that such a decision could only be made with Mother’s approval. He actually left the throne room in order to find her himself. Whilst he was gone, I sat with Grandfather and he told me about our family, and Nyrsta Vígi.”

Aurora narrowed her eyes at her husband. “Why do I feel as though I’m not going to like the end of this story?”

“Because you won’t? It didn’t end happily. Mother came storming into the throne room and told my grandfather that he was unwelcome anywhere within Ulstead. He was driven from the castle, despite Father’s best attempts at soothing Mother, and I never saw him again. I expect that he’s long dead.”

“Oh no.”

“But what my grandfather told me about his family stayed with me. My mother was his first born. His son, Prince Fritjof, was four years younger than Mother, and there were never any others. Their mother, the queen, died when the children were small, and the king never remarried.

Fritjof was very much like Mother in his personality – sly, underhanded, willing to do whatever he felt was necessary to get what he wanted. But where Mother is the sort who will plot and scheme for years until everything is just so, Fritjof was apparently far more reckless. He might have improved with age, but he never got the chance.

When he was seventeen, Grandfather sent him into the Moors in order to try and broker peace. He was a foolish choice, and Grandfather readily admitted it to me that day, but at the time he was hoping that some level of responsibility might help to give his son some self-control.

As you know, he never came back. Mother always assumed that he was murdered by the faeries, but Grandfather was not convinced. He felt that it was far more likely, given Fritjof’s impulsivity, that he had done something stupid and fallen to his death, or drowned, or met his end through some other sort of accident, and that his body was still somewhere in the Moors. In any case, Fritjof never returned, and within a year, Mother was sent to Ulstead to marry Father. The kingdom was collapsing, and it was the best way for Grandfather to keep her safe. She never saw it that way. Mother never forgave him, and Grandfather lost his throne, and most probably his life.”

Diaval’s raven eyes shone like twin onyx beads, darting from Phillip to Aurora, taking everything in. He would have to do some investigating. If there was a fallen prince rotting somewhere in the northern Moors, perhaps he needed to be found and returned to his family. It was entirely probable that the prince _was_ still in the Moors, an unidentifiable pile of bones disappearing slowly into the moss. It was a sizeable realm, and the Fair Folk generally refrained from venturing too far north where the stranger, darker creatures dwelt.

Lawrence cleared his throat to regain Phillip and Aurora’s attention. “Perhaps we can return to the details of the reception?”

“Of course. My apologies, Lawrence.” Phillip replied. 

He settled his head back into his palm and sighed as the steward launched into another dull monologue about food and wine and music. Within minutes, he was no longer paying any attention at all.

* * *

Diaval stood before Maleficent in a secluded clearing in the Moors, his hands on his hips and an expression of excited anticipation on his face. He raised his eyebrows at her, trying to indicate that he was more than ready for her to begin.

Maleficent began to raise a hand, extending her first two fingers toward him, then hesitated. “Perhaps this is not the best time to be attempting this. After the christening tomorrow, maybe?”

“You _promised_ , Mistress, and you’ve been stallin’ for over three weeks now! Always some reason why _now isn’t a good time_ … anyway, we should know within a minute or two if you can do it, shouldn’t we? Won’t take long. So let’s get on with it!” He bounced up and down on his heels eagerly.

Maleficent doubted that an attempt to change Diaval into a Dark Fey would be as quick and easy as he seemed to believe, but she said nothing. Imbuing magic into a creature who did not already possess it was not a simple process, and in the rare instances that she was aware of it occurring, it had involved performing deeds of true evil in order to achieve.

Still, she was interested to know if it were possible, and if so, just what her friend would look like as one of her own kind. His raven form made its presence felt in each of the shapes that he wore, and Maleficent had no doubt that a Dark Fey shape would prove no different. His bear and horse shapes had birdish faces, and in his wolf shape he still had raven feet and talons. Even in his human form, there were avian features – the feathers through his hair, his talons where there would otherwise be fingernails, his sharp, beaklike nose.

Maleficent had no real control over the finer details of each of his forms. In her mind, as she cast her spell, she imagined the basic form of each of the creatures that she willed him to become, but the final result was as much a surprise to herself as it was to anyone else. Sometimes she wondered if the raven features which remained with Diaval in each of his forms were his own unconscious doing in response to her magic; an unwillingness to be entirely removed from his true self.

Her expression was serious. “I’m more concerned about accidentally hurting one of us in the process. As I told you, I’ve never changed a non-magical creature into a magical one before.”

Diaval made a noise of derision. “It’ll be fine. Come on, Mistress. Make my man shape even more beautiful with a lovely set of wings.” He stood before her, arms out and palms facing, with an excited grin growing ever wider across his face.

“Don’t get your hopes up. I might not be able to do anything.”

“Try anyway.”

Maleficent exhaled loudly and looked straight into Diaval’s eyes. She studied him for a moment, reluctant to act in case it proved a mistake. She would never forgive herself if she hurt him, even accidentally. 

Swallowing hard, she inhaled deeply and raised her hands, summoning ribbons of golden flames.

“Into a Dark Fey!”

Diaval’s form disappeared into a blanket of black mist, which swirled and sparked around him. Fragments of his man shape appeared here and there; an arm, the top of his head, a foot, until most of the mist began to dissipate.

Before her stood her friend, as he always appeared, but with the addition of a pair of massive raven wings which gleamed in subtle shades of blue and green in the dappled light, and two sharp black horns arcing up and out from either side of his head. Pointed ears and sharp cheekbones led to a pair of inky eyes flecked with gold, shimmering like stars in the midnight sky. He was breathtaking. Beautiful. A vision of Dark Fey perfection.

It was a vision short-lived, however, as the horns and wings and cheekbones once again dissolved into a haze of black nothingness, leaving only Diaval in his human shape once more.

He looked up at her, an eyebrow twitching. His eyes had returned to the same familiar, expressive darkness that she had known for so long. 

Diaval swore, even as his mouth pulled into a wry smile to reassure Maleficent that he wasn’t actually _that_ upset.

“It seems that without the addition of magic, the Dark Fey shape is fleeting.” Maleficent narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, thinking. “Perhaps if I make my spell more specific? If I explicitly change you into the _shape_ of a Dark Fey, rather than a Dark Fey itself?”

“Worth a try. I’m not so held up on the magic part anyway, Mistress, it’s more about the wings.”

Maleficent raised her hands to make another attempt, her brow furrowed in concentration. _Shape of a Dark Fey. Just the shape. Focus on the shape, the form. Diaval’s human form, but with wings._

Before she was able to cast her spell of transformation, though, the rhythmic thudding of approaching wingbeats became ever more apparent in the distance. Maleficent dropped her hands again, eliciting a grunt of frustration from Diaval, and turned toward the direction of the sound.

Diaval’s irritation only increased when he realised that the owner of the approaching wings was none other than Borra. Wonderful. Were the constant excuses to spend time with his Mistress not _enough_ of an annoyance, the malodorous pillock? Maleficent had _finally_ consented to try and give his human form wings, and here he was, getting in the way. The man was a curse! Diaval glared at Borra as he landed beside Maleficent.

“I’m glad to have found you.” the Dark Fey man began without preamble. “I’ve just come from several hours of arguing with half a dozen of the adolescent Fey, who seem to think that venturing into the more dangerous parts of the Moors is a wonderful idea.”

“Oh? That’s inadvisable.”

“I wouldn’t bother arguing with them at all, except that some of their mothers expect that my scolding them is far more effective than them doing it themselves.” Borra rolled his eyes. “At this point, though, I need you to step in and speak with them. They seem to think that it is all a game. Perhaps hearing from you, the Phoenix, that there are some places in the Moors where they should not venture might prove more effective.”

“Where have they been going?”

“To the north. Baiting Huldrefolk, I believe. They should know better, and they were certainly taught better than that. We’ve never had issues like these with the young ones before.”

“They’ve never been free before.” Diaval interjected. 

Borra turned to look at him, as though noticing his presence for the first time. He said nothing for a long moment, before replying, “True.”

Both men returned their attention to Maleficent. “Gather the young ones at the Fairy Mound. It is time that they learned that the Moors can be as dangerous as they are beautiful. I will meet you there soon.” she said to Borra. He bowed his head in acknowledgement and left in a flurry of feathers. Several of them drifted down to the ground as he flew away.

Glancing apologetically at Diaval, Maleficent said, “We will try again another day. I promise.” 

The raven man shrugged, smiling affectionately at her. “It’s not important.”

“Diaval…”

“It’s not, though, is it? Not if there are young ones doin’ dangerous things. I haven’t forgotten what you told me about the northern Moors.”

They had been barely a month back in the Moors after living in the castle ruins on the outskirts until Stefan’s coronation. One evening she had watched as he had approached her throne from the north – the first time he had done so. His reasons were entirely innocent (he had been hungry and had stopped in a favourite field for a quick snack before crossing the wall of thorns), but Maleficent was unexpectedly riled. Hissing angrily at him, she had looked him square in the eye and forbidden him to ever go to the northern part of the kingdom. There was evil in the north. The shadier, more malicious inhabitants of the Moors made their homes beneath the tightly closed tree canopy, living their lives in the darkness and gloom. They kept to themselves, but those who ventured north seldom returned.

After all that he had already seen of magic and magical beings, Diaval knew better than to question her.

Maleficent’s nod brought him back to the clearing. “If only the adolescent Fey were as sensible as you. Perhaps you would like to visit Ulstead whilst I deal with this? There might be a small human who needs cooing over.” she asked with a knowing smile.

“Well, I might learn somethin’ important about the christening tomorrow…” Diaval grinned. “You never do know. It’s not all fawnin’ over the little one.”

Maleficent looked uncomfortable for a moment, which confused him. 

“Mistress?”

She shook herself and raised two fingers. “Let me know if you do happen to learn something important, although I expect it is far more likely that you’ll spend several hours mooning over Wilfred and won’t even notice if someone plucks your tailfeathers. Into a bird.”

Arms became wings. Diaval circled his Mistress for a moment, then landed gracefully on her shoulder. He bumped his head into her cheek gently, a gesture of friendship and comfort. Something was bothering her about the christening. He hoped that later, when they had some time alone, that she would be willing to talk to him about it.

* * *

The dawning of the new day had brought with it a spectacular sunrise, warm and inviting. As vivid red and orange hues blossomed across the lightening sky, Diaval watched from a branch near the top of Maleficent’s tree, a smile in his heart if not on his raven face.

Today, dear little Wilfred would be christened. His family would be all together in celebration, united in their joy and their love for the newest of their number. He felt utterly elated, warm to the very centre of his being in contentment. Such a beautiful morning could only be the herald of a wonderful day.

Taking to his wings, Diaval swooped down to the lower branches and landed at the opening to Maleficent’s nest. Peeking inside, he was surprised to find it empty. The only sign that it was even inhabited was the presence of a few stray feathers; Maleficent was, after all, fastidiously tidy. It was not often that he failed to notice her leaving, though. He could only assume that she had left long before dawn.

Diaval hoped vainly that she had just decided to have an early breakfast, even as he told himself off for such an idiotic notion. No, there was no point in denying it, least of all to himself. He knew her better than she knew herself. The truth was that if Maleficent had up and disappeared without a word to him, and on such an important day, no less, then it could only mean one thing.

Something was wrong.

In the absence of any obvious disasters, Diaval could only conclude that Maleficent was having another one of her frequent irrational crises. Oh brilliant.

He steeled himself for a long morning, and started a mental checklist of her usual haunts. He would try those first in the hope that it was a minor irrational crisis, and not a major one which would result in a genuine attempt to hide. He might not find her for days if that were the case.

He took flight toward her favourite rocky outcrop in the craggy Moors mountains. From there, she could oversee a good part of the land, and she often spent entire days standing and observing the doings of the Moorfolk. Perhaps she had merely decided to watch the sunrise from there; that the outcrop faced the north was entirely beside the point.

Diaval felt that he should have seen it coming, though. Maleficent had been behaving strangely for several days – well, more so than her usual level of strangeness. She had been pensive. Brooding. Distant, even with him. After speaking to the adolescent Dark Fey about the very real dangers lurking in the northern reaches of the Moors, and (some hours later) extracting herself from Borra’s company, she had retreated to her eyrie until well after sunset. He had returned from Ulstead to find her nest empty, though she arrived not long after, putting herself to bed with little more than a curt “Goodnight” in his general direction.

Flapping briskly, Diaval found a pocket of warm air rising from one of the numerous thermal pools which dotted the Moors below him. He rode it upwards, coasting toward the delicate clouds, still tinted pink from the lingering dawn. Though he was concerned for his Mistress, he couldn’t help the exhilaration which coursed through his veins as though one with his life’s blood as he soared through the skies in defiance of gravity and all that would hold him fast to the earth. Diaval understood, in these moments of unfettered flight as he took for granted all that his wings allowed him, just how Maleficent must have felt when her wings were taken from her. To have the very sky itself and then to lose it without warning to one in whom she had placed her deepest trust… it was little wonder that she had raged and grieved, and hardly surprising that in her innermost self, she feared such a loss again.

Diaval circled about and landed deftly on Maleficent’s favourite rocky outcrop. The rock jutted out from the mountainside, and there was a small cave located at the base of it. He had noticed that over time, she had gradually built herself a second nest within this cave, barely large enough to fit her if she were to curl up with her knees tucked into her stomach. To the best of Diaval’s knowledge, Maleficent had never actually used the nest, but it concerned him that it even existed – and that she had clearly felt that if she _were_ to need it, she would be feeling low enough to sleep bent into a foetal position, away from her usual nest and away from _him_.

He squawked briefly, but the only response was the echo of his own voice from within the small cave.

Well, he hadn’t honestly expected to find her _that_ easily. She was Maleficent, after all. ‘Easy’ wasn’t exactly a dominant word in her vocabulary.

Diaval dived from the outcrop, allowing himself to freefall for several seconds before opening his wings and catching the breeze, which took him upward into the morning sky again.

He eliminated the Fairy Mound with a quick flyover, and made a beeline for the Dark Pond. Sometimes her melancholy took her there to brood and sulk; it was as likely a place to find her as any. Before he had made it halfway there, however, his keen raven eyes spied an anomaly in the uniform lushness of the treetops. Feeling hopeful, he flew closer to investigate.

Maleficent was high in a tree, sitting on a branch well above any of her usual perches. She looked almost comical on a branch so small. A humanlike body combined with such impressive Fey wings gave the illusion of weight, but Diaval knew that it was just that – an illusion. Maleficent, like the rest of her kind, was as light-bodied as a bird. Hollow bones, she’d told him once, just like those he had in his raven form. Strong, _deceptively_ strong, but light. How else could creatures like the Dark Fey ever hope to fly?

Maleficent was gazing broodingly in the direction of Ulstead, her bound horns resting against the trunk and her massive umber wings wrapped around her shoulders. Her hands fiddled unconsciously with the fabric of her dress, a sable velvet number with silver raven silhouettes embroidered along the collar and cuffs.

“Caw!” Diaval said, landing on the branch in front of her. He cocked his head to one side, appraising her. Apprehensive, that’s what she was. Nervous. Her face was a mask, betraying no emotion, but he could see the subtle narrowing of her eyes that revealed her true feelings. They were distinctly emerald at this moment too; a clear sign that she was not a happy Fey.

He hopped closer to her along the branch, warbling softly. He wanted her to change him, although he wasn’t confident of the integrity of the branch beneath him if she did. Still, he had no way to encourage her to confide her concerns to him in this form if she chose not to disclose them.

“Cawwww?”

Maleficent sighed loudly and twirled her fingers. Diaval deftly grabbed the branch beneath him as his wings became arms, sitting astride the branch and gripping it firmly. It creaked a little, but held. He hoped that it would continue to hold; he was a lot heavier in this form than his Mistress, and he was further from the trunk.

“We need to go to Ulstead soon, Mistress.” he began.

“Hm.”

Diaval waited.

“I was thinking that perhaps you should go on behalf of the Moors, Diaval. A sort of representative.”

“Not alone, Mistress. You’re invited too.”

She gave him a hard look. “Nobody wants me at that christening. You cannot tell me, speaking truthfully and with all honesty, that the people of Ulstead will not be looking at me as some sort of demon, bent on cursing the baby prince as I did his mother. I would not be a welcome presence.” She looked unhappily into the distance again. “I should stay here, where nobody will consider me a threat.”

Diaval sighed. Suddenly her broodiness of the past few days began to make sense. “Mistress… you are an invited guest. Aurora wants you there. How do you think she’d feel if you, the closest she’s ever had to a proper mother, don’t come to the christenin’ of her first born?”

“Relieved?”

“Mistress.” Diaval said disapprovingly.

“I doubt it would be fair to the other guests.”

“Forget the other guests. They can think what they like.”

“It’s not that simple. You saw the looks I received as we walked into Ulstead on the night of that dreadful dinner. I’d done nothing to any of them personally, but they feared me nonetheless. The evil faerie who curses babies and laughs about it. I would not be welcome.”

“We can try and make you look as non-threatening as possible, and they might forget about that whole Aurora’s christenin’ incident?”

She stared at him, her eyebrow raised almost to her hairline. “And how exactly do you suggest I make myself look ‘non-threatening’, Diaval? Considering the foot-long horns and twelve-foot wings, my reputation notwithstanding?”

He chuckled. “Easy as pie, Mistress. Although I’m not sure how pie is meant to be easy so much as it’s meant to be delicious.”

“You said yourself that I would still be a ‘scary faerie’, even if I were clad in pink frills from head to toe.”

“I was teasin’!”

“Were you?”

“Mistress, you’re not as scary as you seem to think you are. And we can make you look less scary still, just so the humans don’t have conniptions about you bein’ there.”

“I am not covering my horns again.”

“Oh no, definitely not. They’re a part of you, and nothin’ to be ashamed of. That was… that wasn’t right. I know Aurora meant well, but it wasn’t right.”

Diaval and Maleficent exchanged a meaningful look. It was difficult to determine which of them had been more horrified by Aurora’s suggestion that Maleficent cover her horns for that terrible dinner with King John and Queen Ingrith. The girl had been trying to keep everyone happy and comfortable, but – atypically for her, as she was usually very aware of the needs and feelings of those around her – she had unintentionally devastated her godmother. Her horns were one of the more obvious features of her Dark Fey heritage, and the request to cover them up for the comfort of others stung more than Maleficent was willing to admit.

“There’s plenty we can do to make you look less… um… _menacin'_ … that doesn’t involve hiding your lovely horns or coverin' up any part of you that makes you _you_.” Diaval continued. He examined her carefully for several long seconds. Maleficent squirmed a little under the intensity of his gaze.

“Okay, how about… do you have any dresses that aren’t black and covered in bird skulls?”

“I can magic myself whatever I please.”

“Can you magic something that isn’t black?”

“I am not wearing pink frills, Diaval.”

“Oh no, definitely not. Wouldn’t even think to suggest it. Not pink. It works on Aurora but it’s a bit too… I don’t know, sweet? It wouldn’t suit you.” he said firmly. “You’d look better in somethin’ autumnal instead. Or maybe green? I seem to recall you look lovely in green. Brings out your eyes.” 

Diaval refrained from mentioning that he spent far too much time gazing at the turning leaves every autumn, finding the colours which best reminded him of his Mistress. The true gold of her life-giving magic, the greenish gold of her exquisite eyes, the browns and greens of the dresses that she had worn when they had first met, the deep red of her lips. He found them all as the seasons changed and autumn painted the Moors in a palette even more bright and beautiful than usual.

He blinked, hoping that she hadn’t noticed him drifting into his memories.

“And maybe a fabric that isn’t so… severe? Something flowy. And no skulls or bones or bits of dead _anythin’_ of any kind.” Diaval asserted. The skulls definitely had to go if she wanted the humans to believe that she was a benign presence.

Maleficent regarded him skeptically before surrounding herself with a swirl of golden magic. In a matter of seconds, she was wearing a light gown of deep moss green with a delicate gold leaf pattern on the sheer overskirt, and not a skull in sight.

Diaval smiled. “Much better. You look almost friendly!” he teased. Maleficent bared her fangs at him for suggesting such a travesty.

He cocked his head to the side for a moment, gauging her. “And maybe…” Diaval leaned over the branch, clinging for dear life with only his legs, thighs clenching desperately to avoid an embarrassing plummet to the forest floor. He had no doubt that Maleficent’s excellent reflexes would have him changing into a raven long before he hit the ground, but she would never allow him to live it down if he, a raven born and bred, were to fall out of a tree. 

He reached for Maleficent, who stiffened in confusion, and gently unwound her head wrap with reverent hands. “Wear your hair out. You look gentler that way. Trust me. Please.”

Maleficent relaxed even as she flashed Diaval a dubious look, and combed the snarls from her long chestnut hair with her fingers before looking back up at him from beneath her thick lashes. “Acceptable?”

The catch in his breath and gentle awe in his deep onyx eyes told her as much, but Diaval whispered, “More than. You look exquisite, Mistress.” He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. Ravens, after all, adored beautiful things, and his Mistress looked truly stunning with her hair out, like some sort of enchanted nature goddess. He wanted to touch it, run his fingers through the long strands, and see if it felt as soft and silky as it looked. He wondered if she might let him, later on, as he preened her wings before they slept. 

“And not in the least bit malicious or threatenin’ to little babies.” he added, the corner of his mouth twisting into his characteristic crooked smile.

The spell was broken as Maleficent sighed loudly. “I doubt that this will make a difference, though. I’m still _me_. Mistress of All Evil. The heartless creature who cursed a helpless baby at her own christening, now at another christening, and of that baby’s baby no less. It doesn’t matter that I’m invited to this one. They’ll all be expecting me to curse him to eternal sleep or magic him into a frog prince. Or perhaps blow something up in a fit of pique. They’ve only just repaired the towers from Ingrith’s little wedding day war, after all.”

“I’m sure they won’t. Not all of them, anyway. Aurora and Phillip and John won’t, at least.” Diaval held out a hand to her. “Come on, Mistress. I’ll be there all the way, and nothin’ bad is going to happen. We’ll have a lovely time, bless the wee fellow with a nice gift – have you thought about what you’re goin’ to give him? – and have some hatchlin’ cuddles and a good feed at the reception afterwards. There might even be pie! We’ll have a wonderful evening, and in a few hours you’ll be wonderin’ what you were so worried about.” Diaval smiled at her in his adorably winning way, and Maleficent couldn’t help the tiny twitch of a smile which graced her lips in return. She took his hand and gave it a little squeeze, then flicked her fingers to give him back his feathers.


	5. Chapter 5

The original chapel at Ulstead Castle had been shuttered since the massacre which had occurred within it on the day of Aurora and Phillip’s wedding. Other than removing Gerda’s broken body from where she had come to rest after falling from the pipe organ mezzanine, the chapel had been untouched for almost a year. With their fairy souls torn from them by the Tomb Bloom powder, the plants which ascertained their natures had grown unchecked in the months which had followed the massacre. The old chapel was now almost impenetrable for the flora within it; the great tree which had once been Leif dominated the centre, and flowers bloomed throughout the fallen pews and skirted the balcony above the altar. The pipe organ itself had all but disappeared into a thicket of bluebells.

Though it would have been simpler to merely repair the damage caused to it that day, the royal family (in consultation with Maleficent, who had extremely strong opinions on the matter) felt that it would be far more respectful to turn the chapel into a memorial to the fallen, and build an entirely new chapel elsewhere on the castle grounds.

The newly build chapel stood separate to the main castle, surrounded by meticulously tended gardens. It was a small structure, barely the size of a barn, with outer walls of white marble shot with streaks of silvery inclusions, and a tall spire which pierced the blue of the sky above. Creepers with yellow and white flowers wound their way up the walls and buttresses and across the slate roof, creating the illusion of the chapel having been constructed as much from vines as from stone. Much of the building was comprised of tall windows, to allow as much light and nature to penetrate the interior as possible.

Aurora, Phillip and King John stood at the wooden doors, welcoming the guests who had been invited to the christening itself. Little Wilfred was wide awake in his father’s arms, staring in wide-eyed fascination at the crowd of new faces. Now two months old, he was far more aware of the world around him, and a sweet and bubbly personality was beginning to emerge. He gurgled happily at the throng of well-wishers.

Maleficent and Diaval flew straight over the top of the castle walls, avoiding the stares and glowers of the Ulsteadan townsfolk, and landed in the gardens some fifty feet from the chapel. A wave of Maleficent’s hand brought Diaval to his human form, and he was surprised to find that she had taken the liberty of changing his clothes at the same time. They generally discussed such things and came to an agreement beforehand. He had _standards_ , after all. Today, though, he unexpectedly found himself in a smart black doublet and breeches, with black leather boots which almost reached his knees. The doublet had twin panels of green running down from each shoulder, embroidered with gold leaves, and was cinched at the waist with a black leather belt. It complemented Maleficent’s dress, Diaval realised. They had an _aesthetic_. He was delighted.

Maleficent, conversely, looked as though she was trying very hard not to scream. She had pulled her face into a fierce grimace, which Diaval suspected was supposed to be a friendly smile. He leaned over and muttered from behind his own far more believable grin, “Less fang, Mistress. _Friendly_ smile. _Happy_ smile. Your face shouldn’t hurt doin’ it.”

Maleficent narrowed her eyes at him and tried to relax her face. She shook her wings to try and relieve some of the tension which had settled like an iron ingot in her belly, heavy and painful and unwelcome. It was a christening, not a battle. Everything was going to be all right, and everyone was safe and happy. She was invited; she was welcome.

She repeated it in her mind like a mantra as they approached the little chapel.

“Godmother!” Aurora exclaimed. She abandoned any pretence of majestic queenhood, running to embrace Maleficent with such fervour as to cause the older woman to take a step back. The grimace finally became a genuine smile.

“Hello Beastie.”

“I’m so glad you came.”

Maleficent paused, an awkward expression frozen on her face. She had not breathed a word to Aurora about her reservations, and she doubted that Diaval had disclosed anything either. Surely Aurora could not have known how close she had been to _not_ coming?

Of course she did. How could she not? Other than Diaval, with whom the girl was now sharing a knowing look, who else in the world knew her so well?

She sighed, tilting her head to one side in a gesture of acceptance. “I wouldn’t have missed it.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, after all. Had it been a private christening with only those whom she knew well, Maleficent would have attended without a moment of hesitation. It was these others, these strangers, the ones who knew her not and stared her down with judgmental eyes and whispers of rumour, these condemnatory fools, _they_ were the problem.

Aurora stepped back and ushered them toward the chapel. King John nodded a greeting to Maleficent, then shook Diaval’s hand firmly. “Lovely to see you both again.” he grinned.

A man in a dress wandered through the chapel doors, startling loudly at the sight of Maleficent. He raised a long staff with a cross on the apex in front of him defensively. Reacting instantly, Maleficent’s wings flew out as widely as possible, a posture intended to intimidate with sheer size alone, though she did manage to refrain from hissing at him, more or less. As one, Diaval, Aurora and Phillip moved toward the Dark Fey, whilst King John had a word with the alarmed man.

“It’s all right, Godmother, he’s here for the christening. I doubt that he was expecting to see you and you gave him a fright. Please… your wings?”

Maleficent glared at the man and cautiously folded her wings back against her shoulders, though she still held them high. “Who is he?” she asked suspiciously.

“Father Huw.” Phillip replied. “The minister.”

“I thought that King John was your father.” Maleficent scowled.

Phillip chuckled. “He is. It’s a title. Father Huw is nobody’s father, at least as far as he’s willing to admit to anyone. He is going to perform the christening.”

Maleficent raised an eyebrow at this not-father Father. He eyed her distrustfully in return.

King John, clearly trying to diffuse the tension with diplomacy, spoke up and made formal introductions. “Father Huw, this is Maleficent, the Guardian of the Moors, Phoenix of the Dark Fey and godmother to our dear Aurora. Maleficent, this is Father Huw.”

The minister winced at her, muttering a barely audible greeting. Maleficent inclined her head in his direction, unblinking. Social a creature she was not, but she _was_ supremely confident in her ability to make people uncomfortable without uttering a word. Sure enough, Father Huw looked away first, peering questioningly at Diaval. Maleficent allowed herself the tiniest imaginable victory smile.

“And this is Diaval,” King John continued, “Aurora’s godfather and… what exactly is your relationship to Maleficent, Diaval? Familiar? Friend? Consort?”

Diaval make a choking noise. “Friend! Friend will do just fine…” He could feel Maleficent’s gaze upon him but pretended to be oblivious. “Pleasure to meet you, Mister Father Huw. Lovely dress. Very flatterin'.”

A small cough came from Aurora’s direction. “Would you like to go in and find your seats, perhaps?” she asked in a tone which invited no argument from either her confused godfather or her formidable godmother. She put an arm around each of them and herded them into the chapel, nudging them inside before returning to her position by the doors.

“What did I say?” Diaval muttered in confusion to nobody in particular.

The interior of the chapel was even more beautiful than the exterior. The white marble continued throughout, giving the building a sense of fairylike enchantment as sunlight streamed through large leadlight windows and picked up the sparkling silver veining. The floor matched the exterior roof; fine grey slate, polished until it shone. The ceiling above was vaulted, rising some fifty feet above the rows of pews, the buttresses whitewashed to blend into the light marble walls. Each side of the chapel had two enormous leadlight windows side by side, and an even larger window dominated the wall behind the altar.

The leadlight had been commissioned by Aurora personally. Though most chapels and cathedrals made liberal use of religious storytelling in their windows, the Queen of the Moors had insisted upon scenes which reflected her home and the land of her spirit. Great glass trees and fairies gleamed in a myriad of colours, each panel telling a story of the inhabitants of the Moors. Translucent flowers wound haphazardly around the edge of each window, bound together by ribbons of lead. The light streaming through the windows entered the chapel in a riot of colour which changed with the movement of the sun.

The largest leadlight window was different. Located behind the altar and therefore the most prominent window of all, it was as spectacular as it was heartbreaking. This window told the story of the Wedding Day Battle, and the massacre of Moorfolk and Dark Fey alike. Though it had been designed tastefully, the images it contained made the truth of the battle implicitly clear. The red of the Tomb Bloom powder was dominant in many areas of the leadlight, contrasting with the greens and yellows of the Moorfolk and the clear blue of the sky. It stood twice as wide as the wall leadlights, and half again as tall. The tone of the piece itself was darker overall than those of the side windows, as beautiful as it was tragic. Aurora and Phillip had designed it so; a memorial as well as a perpetual reminder to those who may choose to forget.

Maleficent stopped as the memorial leadlight came into view. She pursed her lips, taking in each of the details. There, to the left, was the shape of Leif the Ent. To his right was Flittle, the soft blues of her clothing and wings mimicked perfectly by the coloured glass. Slowly, Maleficent found each of the fallen Moorfolk within the beautiful leadlight, immortalised within the glass for as long as the chapel would stand.

She blinked rapidly as hot tears threatened. It would not do to cry.

Maleficent felt, more than saw, Diaval close at her side. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But it makes me feel so sad.” he murmured.

“It should never have happened. All those lives lost for the sake of one woman’s prejudice and hate. And she had the gall to call _me_ evil.”

“You’ve never killed anyone just because you hated them, Mistress. Even Stefan, technically. It’s only even been in protectin’ the Moors or those you love, and even then, you don’t kill if you don’t have to. Ingrith was happy to kill anyone who got in her way, the nutter.”

Maleficent thought for a long moment. “Aurora asked me to change her back, but I’m concerned about what she might attempt if I do.”

Diaval shrugged. “I’m sure King John would keep her confined, regardless of the form she was in. But if you’re not happy changin’ her back, then don’t. She deserves far worse than bein’ a goat for the rest of her days, after what she did. You were quite merciful, really.”

“Merciful?”

“You could have killed her. You could have given her over to Borra, which would have amounted to the same thing. But you just made her look a bit stupid and shut her up so that nobody would be thinkin’ about followin’ her anymore. That was merciful. And pretty funny, if I’m bein’ truthful.”

Maleficent turned to look at him then, meeting his inscrutable gaze as the prismic light from the windows fell gently across their faces. The colours reflected within his eyes, rainbows sinking into an obsidian abyss, and for a moment she was mesmerised by him, her breath catching in her throat. “You would have told me anyway, if I had gone too far.” she said softly.

Diaval’s eyebrows twitched cheekily. “And you might even have listened.” He winked, and carefully took her arm. “Shall we sit down? We get to sit at the front, you know. _Extra_ important, we are. Aurora said so. More or less.”

He steered them to the front left pew, encouraging her to sit down as he moved behind her and fluffed about with her wings until they were resting comfortably. The pews had low backs, which was fortunate, and Maleficent wondered if it had been a deliberate choice on the part of her goddaughter.

No sooner had Diaval sat himself beside her than the chapel began to fill up. Maleficent could hear the muted muttering and gasps of surprise from most of the other guests at her presence. She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, threading her fingers together in her lap tightly. She heard Diaval shifting on the pew beside her, moving closer. His hand closed over hers, and he squeezed. “Ignore the human fools.” he whispered, “You’re here for _good_.”

Maleficent wasn’t entirely certain which _good_ he meant. The side of the right or permanence itself? Perhaps both. She opened her eyes again and gave him a faint smile.

A hush fell over the crowd, and King John, Aurora and Phillip walked through the doors with Wilfred. Father Huw followed closely behind, holding a pewter jug. They made their way through the centre of the chapel to the altar, and surrounded a small basin.

Father Huw poured the contents of the jug into the basin and began to speak in Latin. Maleficent leaned slightly toward Diaval, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Are they giving Wilfred a bath?” she murmured.

“No, Mistress, it’s not bathin’ water.” he replied in a whisper.

“All clean water is bathing water.”

“What about sea water? I wouldn’t go bathin’ in sea water. You’d get all crusty from the salt.” Diaval shuddered.

“So it’s sea water in the basin?”

“No, it’s sort of special water. Like magic water.”

“Magic water? Did it come from the Moors?” Maleficent had no idea how someone from Ulstead could have found their way in and out of the Moors without her knowledge. It was possible, but extremely unlikely. The thought made her hackles rise.

“Probably just the river.” Diaval muttered.

“The river water is ordinary water. It has no magical properties whatsoever.”

“It’s not _magic_ magic. The father man in the dress says a sort of spell over it and then the humans pretend that it’s magic.”

“You’re confusing me.”

“It’s confusin’ stuff.”

Maleficent was about to reply when a sharp look from Aurora silenced her. She was holding Wilfred, who had been all but stripped; his gown was falling from his shoulders, and his little white bonnet was nowhere to be seen. Maleficent rearranged her features into something that she hoped looked apologetic.

Aurora held the baby over the basin as Father Huw poured the supposedly magic water over his head. The boy screwed up his little face and let out a deafening wail of protest at the unexpected cold shower. Maleficent stiffened, tensing in preparation to intervene. Surely tormenting babies with cold water was not a part of this christening ceremony?

Diaval cleared his throat and gripped her hand tightly. It had been so natural a gesture that she hadn’t realised he’d still been holding it. His message was clear, however – _stay put_. She forced herself to relax, though she narrowed her eyes at the not-father Father as he chanted something in Latin that nobody but he could understand. The humans were so concerned about her cursing the baby, but they were quite happy to have this man standing above him, speaking unknown words in a tongue which nobody comprehended, that could just as easily be a malevolent spell. It was baffling.

“Apparently they’re chasin’ the evil out of him.” Diaval muttered, leaning closer. Maleficent turned to him in unconcealed confusion.

“Evil? He’s a _baby_.” she whispered harshly.

“Yeah, that prat Lawrence was talkin’ about it. Somethin’ about original sin and the magic water sends it packin’. Somethin’ like that.”

“Original sin?” Maleficent whispered, moving even closer so that her words were barely a breath. “What on Earth do they mean by that?”

Diaval raised an eyebrow, bemused, and murmured, “Apparently all the humans think that they’re naturally evil from birth, and they need the magic water to fix it.”

Maleficent blinked slowly and frowned. These silly creatures seemed to think themselves experts in matters of good and evil and based their rituals around it, but none of them really had any idea of what they were talking about. Dousing babies in pretend magic water to chase out an inborn evil, despite them being the most innocent that they would ever be in their lives?

“This makes no sense.” she hissed sullenly.

Diaval shrugged. “I know. Humans are strange. Just smile and nod, Mistress. Smile and nod.” With that, the raven man plastered a benign smile on his face and turned his eyes toward Wilfred, who was settling down now that he was once again dry and warm in his mother’s arms.

* * *

An hour later, Maleficent could not help but raise an eyebrow at the overexcited manner in which Diaval swooped on one of the long tables which had been set up in the gardens. Each table groaned beneath the weight of the bounty upon it, and Diaval’s eyes had lit up instantly at the sight of them.

She honestly could not fathom where the raven man managed to put it all. Watching him eat was a truly remarkable spectacle.

“There are _seven kinds of pie_ Mistress!” he called – or at least, she thought that it was what he’d called. It was difficult to tell for certain, given that Diaval had a sizable mouthful of one of said pies at the time.

She helped herself to a handful of chestnuts and made her way through the crowd to where Aurora and Phillip stood with Wilfred, accepting well wishes from the guests. The throng parted as she approached; dozens of pairs of eyes stared nervously as the idle chatter petered out with each step that she took.

Maleficent held her head high and tried not to look as hurt as she felt. It would not do to give these humans the satisfaction.

The whispers began again and reached a harsh crescendo as Aurora beamed at her and handed over the baby without hesitation. Maleficent focused her attention on Wilfred, who gave a delighted shriek and grinned gummily at her.

“Well, at least there is one human who likes me.” Maleficent commented dryly.

Diaval, his mouth crammed full of a pastry with a lurid purple filling, appeared at her elbow and started pulling faces at the baby. Wilfred giggled at him, which only encouraged the raven man to further silliness.

Diaval swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have no idea what was in that pie, but I want more.”

Aurora laughed. “I’m glad you approve.”

“So Mistress,” Diaval said to Maleficent, “Have you decided what you’re going to give Wilfred yet?”

“I think I have.” She raised an eyebrow mirthfully at him, then turned to face the crowd. If they were expecting something grand and terrifying, who was she to deny them?

Taking a deep breath, she spread her wings to their widest and summoned her magic. It swirled around her and the baby in her arms like a whirlwind of light. Gasps and cries of terror emerged from the guests.

Maleficent’s smile was incongruous. Humans really _were_ hilarious. Aurora and Phillip were completely relaxed, and yet these fools who knew her by reputation alone still failed to see it. Oh well, if they were already terrified, she may as well have some fun with it.

“ _Listen well, all of you!_ ”

Beside her, she heard Diaval snort. “Mistress, don’t overdo it.” he muttered, “I can hear them sharpenin’ their pitchforks…”

Maleficent ignored him. “I have a _gift_ for the prince.” she continued, as malevolently as she could. Let them squirm. She could feel Diaval’s disapproving glare burning into the back of her head. _Quiet, you_ , she thought.

Then, she smiled as nicely as she could muster. Perhaps it wasn’t quite convincing enough, because the murmur from the crowd was rising in volume, and she could see hands beginning to move to sword pommels.

“Prince Wilfred,” Maleficent intoned, ensuring that her voice carried to the majority of the guests, “You are the heir to two kingdoms. One day, you will have a great many subjects who rely upon your judgment and guidance. To that end, I give you this gift: may you have great wisdom and strength, and integrity in all that you do. May your spirit be kind and your heart good, and may you do what is right for those who depend upon you.” Flames of gold surrounded the prince, and he giggled happily.

A hush had fallen over the crowd. Most of the guests looked thoroughly confused, clearly having expected some sort of curse to fall from Maleficent’s lips rather than a thoughtful and useful blessing. Behind her, Aurora spoke up, her voice thick with emotion.

“That’s a beautiful gift. Thank you so much Godmother.” The girl came closer, and murmured softly, “I’ve been so worried about raising a future ruler, but such a blessing can only help. I hope that he’ll be a mighty king with such a gift. But did you have to scare everyone like that?”

Maleficent smirked.

The guests had started to mill about again, now that it was clear that the Dark Fey meant no harm to the baby prince, though they still looked somewhat bewildered and a tad suspicious.

Would they _ever_ believe that she was no threat to them? She had almost single-handedly ended Ingrith’s war, the flowers surrounded the castle still bloomed almost a year on, and she had shown nothing but kindness to them. She had given their future monarch a decent gift, and hadn’t cursed a single soul in twenty-two years. What more would it take? Maleficent sighed.

Then, refusing to allow herself to wallow in self-pity (as tempting as it was to do so), she saw something which caused a double take. Through the myriad of colourful hats and unusual hairstyles, ornate dresses and ridiculously elaborate doublets, Maleficent spied… a horse.

A _horse_?

She leaned closer to Aurora. “Beastie, why is there a horse in the gardens?”

Aurora gave her a confused look. “I have no idea.” She turned to Phillip, who had also spotted the horse. He shook his head at her and shrugged – he had no idea either.

Beside the horse, leading it through the bewildered throng, was a dark-haired boy in his teens clad in a rough brown tunic. He had a permanent grin plastered onto his face, and he seemed oblivious to the strange looks that he was receiving because of the horse. He led the horse directly toward them and stopped in front of Maleficent, blinking vaguely.

“You have wings.” he stated.

Maleficent raised an eyebrow. “Yes I do.”

“You can fly.”

Her eyes narrowed in bewilderment at the lad. “Yes I can.”

“I can’t fly.” He turned to Aurora. “You’re Queen Aurora.”

Aurora was every bit as confused as her godmother, but was far more skilled at hiding the fact. “Yes I am. Welcome to Ulstead. What is your name?” she asked kindly.

The boy smiled blankly. “Ekkert. I brought this horse. We brought all of the horses. For the baby. Oh, there he is. Hello baby.” he said, waving at Wilfred in Maleficent’s arms. The prince beamed at him.

Several feet behind Aurora and Maleficent, Diaval leaned over to Phillip and muttered, “Do you get the feelin’ that the lad isn’t quite all there?” Phillip’s eyed widened and he nodded slowly.

“You brought horses as a christening gift? How lovely, thank you. Where are you from, Ekkert?” Aurora said gently, having reached the same conclusion as Diaval and Phillip. She hoped that Maleficent would see fit to bite her tongue.

“Nyrsta Vígi.”

“Oh!” Aurora exclaimed, beckoning behind her to Phillip. “Phillip, Ekkert is from Nyrsta Vígi. Are you here alone, Ekkert?”

“My sister came too. She’s here somewhere. We brought horses. Six horses. I caught their dams and their sires. Then they had babies. We brought some of the babies. For the baby. Hello baby.” He waved at Wilfred again.

Suddenly, a voice came from within the crowd. “Ekkert! There you are!”

A tired-looking young woman rushed up to them and put her hand on Ekkert’s shoulder. She too was dressed in a brown tunic, and her hair was cropped just as short as his. It was clear enough that this was the sister; both she and Ekkert shared the same soulful brown eyes.

“I’m sorry if he was bothering you. Ekkert, take the horse to the stables. She’s a gift for Prince Wilfred, but that doesn’t mean that you have to actually _find_ him to give her to him. Horses belong in the stables.”

“Oh.”

“Go on, take her to the stables.”

The girl shooed her brother toward the castle stables firmly. He was evidently used to her telling him what to do, because he offered no protest. Ekkert smiled vaguely again, waved, and led the horse away.

“I’m sorry about Ekkert. He, uh… he had an accident when he was a little boy and he hasn’t been the same since. He means well, but he doesn’t know when to stop talking.” she said apologetically, staring at the ground and balling her hands into fists.

“It’s fine. Not a problem at all. Are you his sister?” Aurora asked.

“Yes – I’m Vætki. We’re here on behalf of Nyrsta Vígi with six horses as a gift for Prince Wilfred’s christening.” she recited tonelessly.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Vætki.” Aurora said. The girl smiled shortly, still staring at the ground.

“Excuse me – I should go and make sure that Ekkert has found the stables.” she whispered. Without waiting for a reply, Vætki turned and walked away rapidly.

“What a strange family.” Phillip said to nobody in particular. Turning to Diaval, he smiled and said, “Now, did I hear you correctly just before? Seven kinds of pie?”

“Indeed there are. And any number of pasties besides. It’s a smorgasbord from heaven.”

“Lead the way, my friend, lead the way.”

Aurora and Maleficent exchanged a look.

* * *

“It’s brilliant pie. Brilliant.” Phillip moaned through a large mouthful. Most of the guests had moved away from the food tables, leaving the two of them to sample everything in relative peace.

“Isn’t it just? Have you tried the blackberry one? It’s to die for.” Diaval replied. He had pastry flakes stuck to his lips and a smear of raspberry filling on his cheek.

“I haven’t, where is it?” the prince replied.

“It’s over next to the tower of croissants.” came a voice from behind them.

Both Diaval and Phillip jumped, turning in shock to the owner of the voice.

“Where did you come from?” Diaval asked in astonishment.

“Nyrsta Vígi.” Ekkert blinked dimly up at him. He gestured to the elaborate crest which adorned the front of his tunic to illustrate.

Diaval narrowed his eyes at the boy, but quickly realised that he was not making a joke. The lad really was a few horns short of a Dark Fey, poor thing. “No, I mean just now. You weren’t there, and then suddenly you _were_ , out of nowhere!”

“I’m very quiet. Have to be quiet. You can’t catch a horse if you aren’t quiet. So I learned to be quiet. Now I can catch the horses. They never hear me coming.” the boy replied.

“You catch the horses?”

“The wild horses. In the desert. The cold desert. It’s very cold in the cold desert. I don’t like being cold. But I like the horses.”

“Cold desert?” Diaval muttered to Phillip in confusion.

“It’s freezing in most of Nyrsta Vígi, but it’s a dry cold. Very little rain, although when it does rain, it’s torrential and quite dangerous because it starts to freeze before it hits the ground. Most of the land is permafrost and not a lot can grow there. I’m surprised that there are wild horses, but I suppose that they survive on lichen, like reindeer.” Phillip replied quietly.

Ekkert just stared at them, smiling blankly.

Phillip and Diaval stared back.

Ekkert blinked.

“So…” Phillip began, breaking the awkward silence, “What do you do in Nyrsta Vígi?”

Ekkert blinked again. “I catch horses.”

Phillip nodded patiently. “Besides catching horses?”

“I look after the horses.”

“Anything else?” the prince asked. It was just about the most uncomfortable conversation that he’d ever had in his life, and he’d had innumerable conversations with Maleficent over the years. He’d take the obstinate Dark Fey over this strange teenager any day – at least arguing with her was good sport, if nothing else. He was surprised that the boy had made it all the way from Nyrsta Vígi without getting hopelessly lost, but then, his older sister had probably done the bulk of the navigating.

“I do things for my Master.”

“Oh? Who is your Master?” Phillip asked with interest. Perhaps the boy and his sister had come to the christening at the behest of the Arbiter, but it seemed odd that he would have chosen the siblings as his official representatives. Ekkert could not have been more than fifteen, and Vætki, though older, was probably not much past twenty. Considering the improbability of them having been chosen for such an important role, and the lack of written communication from the Arbiter, Phillip assumed that Ekkert and Vætki had arrived on behalf of one of the noble families of his mother’s former kingdom.

“Ekkert! EKKERT!!!” Vætki suddenly hollered from across the gardens. She spotted her brother and broke into a run toward them. She stumbled a few times, clearly unused to running. At one point her ankle buckled beneath her, but she continued, limping as she ran.

Gasping and panting as she reached them, she leaned her hands on her knees and offered up another breathless apology. “I’m… sorry… he got… away… from me…” Grabbing her brother by the front of his tunic, she steered him back in the direction of the stables, leaving Phillip and Diaval entirely bewildered.

“He wasn’t really bothering us!” Diaval called after them, but Vætki did not respond. Her stride became more determined, and they could hear Ekkert whining at her as they disappeared behind a row of hedges.

“They are both very strange people.” Phillip commented. Diaval had to agree.

* * *

The reception was beginning to wind down. Without the crowds present, Maleficent found her way back to the food, and was nibbling surreptitiously on a pumpkin scone when she noticed Diaval approaching from the corner of her eye.

He stopped a few feet away from her, his arms crossed on his chest, with an expression on his face which could only be described as _smug_. Maleficent raised an eyebrow.

“So.” Diaval began with a smirk, rocking on his heels and raising his own eyebrows at her.

“So?”

“So the guests are leaving. Wilfred has had the evil chased out of his wee self. The food and drinks are bein' cleaned up. I think it’s fair to say that the christenin’ is over, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Your point, Diaval? Why do you look so self-satisfied?”

“Well Mistress, I seem to recall sayin’ that nothin’ bad was goin’ to happen during the christenin’. Just this mornin’, in fact.” His mouth twisted up into that infernal crooked grin of his. “And here we are at the end of it, and what do you know? _Nothin’_ bad happened!”

Maleficent narrowed her eyes at him, but Diaval chose not to notice the subtle warning in her gaze, nor the deliberate way in which she raised the first two fingers of her right hand.

“It’s not often that I get to tell you, ‘I told you so’, but Mistress…” his infuriating grin became even broader, “I told you- AWWWK!” In a cloud of black smoke, Diaval suddenly found himself a raven again. He beat his wings quickly to keep himself aloft and swooped over and around Maleficent’s head, coming to rest between her horns.

He bristled, fluffing his feathers in irritation, and leaned down over her forehead to look at her upside-down in the eyes. He chittered grumpily and pretended to peck her nose.

“You were saying?”

“Awwk-caw-caw-rrrrkk-aww!”

“It’s fortunate that all went well. You don’t have to be smug about it. Insufferable bird.”

“Rrrkk…”

Maleficent adopted an infuriatingly satisfied expression and strode across the gardens, Diaval still perched on her head, to where Aurora and Wilfred were farewelling the few remaining guests. He squawked and dug his talons into her hair to keep his balance, eliciting a hiss from his Mistress.

Aurora smiled tiredly at them as they approached. “Are you heading back to the Moors?”

“It’s probably best if we do. It’s dusk, after all, and you look exhausted. Put this little one to bed and then straight to bed for you too.”

“Yes Mother.” Aurora teased.

Maleficent’s eyes softened at the word. Had events of the past played out differently, it may have proven to be true, after all. There had been a time when she would have been delighted to have borne Stefan’s child, had he expressed a desire for such a thing.

Ironic, really, that his child had become hers regardless.

Aurora reached up and stroked Diaval’s feathers, smiling at his answering coo. “Goodnight, Pretty Bird.” she said with a smile. “I hope you dream sweet dreams of delicious pie.”

She then embraced Maleficent with one arm, cradling a sleepy Wilfred in the other. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Perhaps, later in the day. I have to meet with some of the other Dark Fey leaders in the morning. It should have been today, but… I told them it could wait.” Maleficent said, baring her fangs and leaving Aurora with no illusions about _how_ her godmother had told them.

“Then we’ll say goodnight, and I hope that we’ll see you at some point tomorrow. I’m sorely tempted to stay in bed until noon at least – I’m exhausted.” Aurora confessed.

“Then off to bed with you. I hope that Wilfred sleeps well and lets you rest.” Maleficent replied. “Goodnight, Beastie.”

With that, Maleficent spread her magnificent wings, causing Diaval to take flight from his perch on her head. Aurora took several steps back as the downdraft buffeted her, smiling at her godparents in farewell. She watched until Maleficent was little more than a speck against the smoky clouds, barely visible in the rapidly darkening sky. Diaval, small as he was, could no longer be seen at all.

She held her little boy close, closing her eyes as fatigue overwhelmed her mind and body alike. “Time for bed, little man.” she murmured to Wilfred, turning toward the castle doors.

* * *

Phillip would no doubt sleep in his own chambers tonight. They were generally together, but on nights when he was likely to be late to bed, he slept apart from her in order to avoid waking her, especially now that she was getting so little sleep with the baby. He could get up to Wilfred, and often did, but he could do nothing about feeding him.

Aurora dragged herself into her bedchamber, yawning widely, and put Wilfred down on her bed so that she could change into a nightgown. He kicked his little legs and grizzled.

“Are you hungry, my darling? We’ll get to that in just a moment.”

Aurora quickly changed the baby’s napkin, scrunching up her nose as she dropped the soiled one into the laundry basket by the door. “How can someone so adorable produce something so foul?” she asked him in mock revulsion.

Settling on the bed, she picked Wilfred up and put him to her breast. He was a ravenous little thing, and ‘little’ was rapidly becoming something of a misnomer. He was growing like a weed – a deliciously chunky weed. 

Aurora stroked his cheek. “Greedy guts.” she whispered affectionately. Wilfred let go for a moment to give his mother a milky grin before returning to far more important matters. She was glad that he had worked out feeding so easily and had reached a point where he was extremely efficient at it. He would be sated in a matter of minutes. Fortunate, as she could barely keep her eyes open.

Wilfred popped off with a manly belch, and Aurora switched him to the other side, chuckling. He fed enthusiastically, but within minutes, his suckling slowed and his eyes fluttered closed as slumber claimed him. Aurora waited another few minutes, until the baby’s breathing was slow and even, then gingerly eased herself from the bed and crossed the room to his cradle in the annex.

Aurora carefully laid her son in his cradle, tucking him in gently. She bent and kissed his little fair head, whispering, “Goodnight, my precious one. I love you so much,” into his hair. Then, yawning once again, exhausted from months of sleepless nights and busy days, she made her way back to her own bed and crawled beneath the coverlet gratefully. Within minutes, Aurora was deeply asleep, her face buried snugly in the pillows.

Across the room, hidden in the shadows, the curtains moved, and a dark shape approached the cradle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ekkert and Vætki's names are Icelandic and Old Norse respectively, and have the same meaning.


	6. Chapter 6

The first vaguely conscious thought which entered Aurora’s mind was that there was bright daylight streaming through the sheer curtains, and that it felt delightfully warm falling across her body as she stretched drowsily.

The second was that her breasts _hurt_.

Awareness washed over her like a bracing wind. She sat up suddenly with an abrupt feeling of dread. It was morning. It was _morning_ , and Wilfred had not woken her for feeding overnight. He had never slept through the entire night – the longest stretch that he had ever slept was four hours. It had easily been twice that.

Aurora threw off the coverlet in panic, her bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. Her knees buckled beneath her and she fell down on all fours on to the rug. Her heart thudded, blood surging wildly though her veins, sending her dizzy and nauseous as though her bedchamber was a tiny boat in the roughest of seas.

Kneeling, Aurora forced herself to take deep, slow breaths and chided herself for overreacting – surely Wilfred had just slept through the night, and she would find him warm and snug and stirring awake in his bed?

She refused to consider the possibility that princes were not exempt from the merciless whims of fate, and queens from the harsh cruelties of life; the terrible truth that sometimes babies went to sleep and never woke up.

Not her baby. Not her little boy. A child so loved and cherished could not be found as cold as marble, grey and still within his swaddles.

No. He was all right. He had to be all right. He was perfectly fine, and she was going to be brave and strong, and make sure of it right this very second. He was fine.

Swallowing rapidly and biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, Aurora forced herself upright and moved to the annex, toward her son’s cradle. Her legs dragged as though she walked through treacle; an unseen force within her holding her back from facing the source of her terror.

The silence was deafening. Not a sleepy breath or the rustle of blankets, no soft coos or sweet babbles. All that Aurora could hear was the harsh sound of her breathing, shuddering and frightened. She rebuked herself for giving in to anxiety; surely her gut feeling was nonsense, a holdover of overwrought emotions from pregnancy and the insecurity of new motherhood.

A sudden flash of fear nearly overwhelmed her as she approached, though she did her utmost to force it down, to be brave for the sake of her son. One of Wilfred’s blankets hung down from the side of the cradle, a corner dragging on the floor. She had definitely not left it that way when she had put him to bed. Her heart pounded violently in her chest as she shakily crossed the final few feet and looked down into the cradle.

It was empty.

Aurora froze, her eyes wide in horror and the rushing sound of her blood in her ears. A scream died in her throat and emerged instead as a horrified squeak. _Where was her son?_

In a panic, she groped at the blankets, ripping them from the cradle and flinging them across the room as she searched wildly for her baby. He had to be there. He _had_ to be there!

He wasn’t there.

Her eyes flew around the annex, even as she knew that there was no conceivable way that a two-month-old baby could have gotten himself out of the cradle alone. He could not yet roll himself over, never mind climb or crawl. It was a preposterous thought, but Aurora scoured the room nonetheless. Wilfred was nowhere to be found.

Phillip would not have taken him from the cradle without telling her. Even as Aurora prayed that she was wrong, and that her baby was merely with his father, she knew that it could not be true. Phillip could not enter a room quietly to save his life – she had teased him about it often enough. He would not have left Wilfred’s blanket draped over the side of the cradle like that, and he would not have left with the child without letting her know in some way. He would have woken her, so as not to frighten her like this. The truth of the matter was like the thud of an axe-blade to her heart.

Someone had taken her son.

“No… no… oh God no…” Aurora sobbed. She forced herself to the door of her bedchamber, though she shook so violently from the shock that every step was fraught. Throwing open the door, she screamed as loudly as she could manage, though her throat choked with panic, “PHILLIP!! PHILLIP!!!”

Her head spun and spots appeared before her eyes. Aurora was vaguely aware of her husband throwing open his bedchamber door and running toward her in terror, even as she fell to her knees and vomited bile all over the floorboards, wailing her baby’s name.

* * *

The morning had once again dawned bright and beautiful, as the soft scents of waking flowers and melodious birdsong welcomed the purple flush of dawn. Tiny faeries flitted between the flowers, spreading sweet dewdrops and embracing the new day with tinkling laughter.

Maleficent, who had been wide awake for some time already, stalked through the Moors toward the Fairy Mound, a single blot of darkness marring the effortless joy of her surroundings. She scowled, eyes darting about nervously, though she could not have articulated the reasoning behind it had somebody asked in that moment. In her left hand she clutched her staff, which she was using to stab irritably at the ground as she walked, though she was meticulously careful to avoid bringing the wooden base down upon any of the smaller Moorfolk.

Behind her, scampering and stumbling over roots and clumps of dirt in an effort to keep up, was Diaval. He would have been far more agile had he been paying less attention to his Mistress, but the raven man was concerned. He knew that she was unenthusiastic about the meeting with the other Dark Fey leaders, but even considering those feelings, her demeanour was rather troubling. It seemed disproportionate to an unwillingness to participate in what was a semi-regular gathering with those she considered friends.

The problem, of course, was that Maleficent was seldom forthcoming in discussing her feelings, even when they had a noticeable impact on those around her. Two decades of gentle coaxing gradually had improved her willingness to share these things, but in many instances she was still an impenetrable fortress, keeping her own counsel unless coerced into disclosing the depth of her thoughts.

Maleficent stopped suddenly and turned on her heel, causing Diaval to pull up abruptly to avoid running straight into her. Barely six inches from her face, he blinked in surprise and tilted his head questioningly.

“ _What?_ ” she hissed.

He raised an eyebrow. “I should be askin’ you that.”

Maleficent glared, asking him to clarify without so much as a word. He understood, though, as she knew that he would.

“Somethin’ is botherin’ you.” he stated.

“What makes you think that?” she asked, though her tone lacked the confidence that she had hoped it would convey. It was disconcerting that he could understand her so thoroughly so as to know that she was bothered rather than angry, but then, she would expect no less from a creature as perceptive as Diaval.

“You’re stalkin’, and doin’ that thing with your jaw that you do when you’re worryin’ about somethin’.”

“That _thing_ with my jaw?”

“Yeah, you’re clenchin’ it. Grindin’ your teeth. What’s wrong?”

Damnable creature. She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to decide whether or not she could muster the effort to organise her thoughts enough to explain herself to him. He tilted his head, waiting, and a lock of dark hair fell across his eyes. He brushed it away without breaking his gaze; waiting, always waiting, as he stared straight into her soul.

It occurred to Maleficent that such a thing should have frightened her.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I just feel uneasy.” A sense, an unsettling feeling within her innermost being which had whispered slyly into her unconsciousness as she slept, stealing her rest and waking her with its cold tendrils of dread. She could hardly have told him why she felt this; she scarcely knew herself.

“Somethin’ about the Moors, or somethin’ with Aurora? Or somethin’ else entirely?”

“I’m not sure. I have to stay here in the Moors this morning, but would you mind…?” Maleficent trailed off, but Diaval understood. She wanted him to go to Ulstead to check on Aurora and her family. He nodded, even as her magic flickered within him to give him back his original form. He had known Maleficent far too long to be ignorant of her instincts.

Once again a bird, Diaval’s strong wings brought him up above the treetops, where he skimmed along the canopy of lush green leaves toward the kingdom of Ulstead. The sun rose higher, turning the mauve hues of dawn into the deep cobalt of the summer sky. The raven cared little for the beauty of his surroundings; indeed, he barely noticed, as fast as he was flying. His little heart fluttered desperately within his chest, racing along with the beats of his wings as miles of green and yellow blurred into a single mass below him.

He knew that something was amiss before he had quite reached the castle – indeed, he was barely over the river – as a cacophony of screams and cries drifted through the warming air toward him. It reminded him painfully of the battle which had raged within those very grounds almost a year before. Now, little evidence of the massacre remained, but for the memories of those who had fought and watched as death came for others in a shower of crimson. A fate which could have befallen any one of them, but for the sake of chance, and Diaval was thankful each and every day that it had not taken those that he loved most.

He struggled to pinpoint exactly where the cries came from – it seemed as though every voice within the castle had been added to the pandemonium. Below him, Diaval could see servants running through the gardens, rifling through shrubs and madly tearing plants from the very ground.

His flight muscles burned, but he forced his wings to beat faster. Maleficent’s instincts had indeed been on to something. He had to find his fledgling.

Alighting on an upper floor windowsill, Diaval arched around an open window and peered inside.

It was chaos. Servants bustled through the hallways, screeching in panic and shouting at each other. All manner of household items flew through the air as they were tossed in abandon; books hurtling skyward and narrowly missing staff, vases smashing onto the floorboards, armour falling with an almighty crash as it was shoved out of the way. One chambermaid was curled up against the wall, hugging her knees and rocking as tears coursed down her cheeks. Furniture and linens had been overturned, flung asunder, forgotten in panic. Looking around in horror at the desperate faces of the humans, Diaval’s heart skipped a beat, and he took off through the window and down the hallway in search of Aurora.

He found her in her bedchamber, which lay in ruins. Aurora’s hair was a matted mess, and her face was red and swollen, stained with tears and mucus. She sobbed and shrieked, tearing her bedchamber asunder with an alarming force of will. The sheer lace curtains lay shredded on the floor, torn from the wooden rail above, and a carpet of goose feathers covered the floor, presumably from the decimated coverlet which his fledgling now flung aside with an agonised scream.

Across the room was Phillip, in an equal state of distress. He was attempting to crawl under the enormous four-poster bed, desperately searching for something. Finding himself stuck, he crawled back out again and attempted to up-end the bed entirely in an effort to access the underneath.

“He’s not _there_ , Phillip! He’s not _anywhere_!” Aurora cried. She fell to her knees and screamed, an otherworldly sound of intense grief and anguish, borne from deep within her soul. It was a sound which chilled Diaval to the very core.

Diaval flew up to his fledgling and cawed in desperation. He had never seen her so distressed and it shattered him to see her this way.

“Oh _Diaval_!” Aurora cried. She held out her arm for him to land on and drew him close, embracing him desperately for a moment. “I’m so glad you’re here. Wilfred is missing!” She choked back a sob. “Someone had taken him! I need you to go and get Godmother, right now. I need her help. Go, please! Get Maleficent!”

The raven had taken flight before the words had finished passing her lips, flying straight through the open window at top speed back to the Moors. Not Wilfred. Not their little one. He beat his wings faster and more forcefully than he had ever done in his long life, eyes streaming from the rush of the air past his face as he powered through the morning sky toward the Fairy Mound. 

He had to get to Maleficent. She would know what to do.

* * *

She heard him long before she saw him.

In twenty three years, Maleficent had become accustomed to all of Diaval’s raven vocalisations. Caws and squawks of interest and irritation, relaxation and indignation, anger and adoration. Gentle coos and manic chitters, chirps and calls and sounds which were almost like her own tongue sometimes. She had heard them all many more times than she could have counted. They were as familiar to her as her own voice.

It was the fact that she was familiar with all of his raven calls which made her stand up suddenly in the midst of the gathering with the Dark Fey leaders, and search for his approaching shape in the sky, dread clutching icy fingers around her heart. For several long, agonising minutes before he came within her sight she could hear him squawking, loud and constant and desperate, and to her mounting horror she recognised the call. 

It was terror.

Maleficent’s eyes scoured the bright blue sky for a sign of her raven’s approach. His voice echoed around her, bouncing from the rocks and trees which surrounded the Fairy Mound, and making it difficult to pinpoint his direction. She assumed that he would be coming from Ulstead, but the treeline reduced her visibility. The other Dark Fey leaders had fallen silent and were watching her anxious expression with concern.

It had been barely two hours since she had sent him to Ulstead. For him to be back already was ominous.

He came at her suddenly, a screeching blur of feathers which barreled at full force into her chest, knocking her from her feet. He hardly seemed to notice that he had bowled her over, however, and continued to squawk and flap madly against her until she waved her hand to give him his human form.

Sitting astride her and gasping frantically from his punishing flight, Diaval choked out, “He’s missin’! Wilfred’s missin’!”

“WHAT?” Maleficent sat bolt upright, sending Diaval sprawling into the dirt. 

“Someone’s taken him!” wheezed the raven man, his eyes like saucers. Though his face was flushed with exertion, there was a bluish tint around his lips, and he sucked in air like a drowning man. It would have concerned his Mistress under ordinary circumstances, if not for the news which he brought to her.

Without a word, Maleficent leapt to her feet and shot up vertically into the air, sending a bolt of magic back behind her to change her friend back into his bird form without stopping to wait for him to catch up. She was out of sight in a matter of seconds.

He spread his wings to follow her, flapping weakly, but dropped back to the ground, exhausted. The flight to Ulstead followed by the return to the Moors as fast as he could fly had done him in. He thought that could taste blood in the back of his throat.

Gentle hands scooped him up and held him close. Udo.

“Rest, friend. We will take you to the castle.” With a look of dogged determination in his unearthly cerulean eyes, the Dark Fey spread his massive wings, pale and majestic as those of a living angel, and took off after Maleficent. 

Though Diaval could not see them, tucked against Udo’s chest as the Dark Fey flew, he heard the unmistakable sound of other wingbeats around them. Clearly Udo was not alone.

* * *

In the centre of the room, the goat queen stood as still as a statue, alarmed by the manic behaviour of the people around her. The fact that these people were her family and generally very sedate and sensible people did not help matters. They had woken her from a delightful morning nap, and now they were messing up her chambers and making utter nuisances of themselves.

She bleated in irritation.

King John, clad only in his nightgown and a pair of crocheted bed socks, knelt before her, a serious expression on his gentle face. “Ingrith, darling – little Wilfred has gone missing. It appears as though somebody took him during the night.” The king sighed, blinking quickly in an attempt to control the tears which threatened to fall at any moment. “Did you see anything? Hear anything? Anything at all?”

Behind him, Phillip was meticulously tearing apart the soft furnishings. Ingrith bleated again.

“I know he’s not here, Mother.” Phillip whimpered, running his hand over his forehead as his lips trembled, “But we have to look everywhere. I can’t just sit idly. Our little boy is out there somewhere.”

Ignoring her husband, Aurora began to rip the stuffing from a large chair cushion as though expecting to find her little boy fast asleep and safe within.

Thudding wingbeats heralded a welcome arrival. Though Aurora had expected to have to find her godmother in amongst the turmoil in the castle once she arrived from the Moors, a deafening crash and the shattering of one of the windows behind Ingrith proved her assumption incorrect. She supposed that she should have expected that Maleficent would be able to find her in a matter of moments. Glass rained down tinkling upon the floor as a whirlwind of fabric and feathers spun into the room. The Dark Fey pulled out of her roll and hung threateningly in the air just above the floor.

Maleficent was a terrifying sight. Magic crackled unchecked from her entire being, emerald flames licking up the length of her body and all the way to her spread wingtips. Her feathers stood at wild angles, mussed with uncontained fury as much as they were ruffled from flight. Her eyes were almost unrecognisable; brilliant green glowing with barely restrained magic, two annuli of light which were almost eclipsed by pupils blown wide with rage.

Ingrith bolted, skittering to her bed and clumsily squeezing herself beneath it in a flurry of scrabbling legs. King John spared her a glance, but quickly returned his attention to the frightening creature before him.

Aurora, unafraid as always, ran straight to her Godmother and threw her arms around her with a cry. Maleficent started as though wrenched from another plane entirely, a place of revenge and pain and malevolence in which destruction pushed back to fight against anguish, back into the present. She stared down at the tearful girl clinging to her, a port of safety in a storm, and she forced a deep, shaking breath into her lungs. Aurora. Her daughter. Her daughter needed her. Maleficent wound her arms and wings around the girl and pulled her into a crushing embrace.

It took several terrifying moments and a great deal of conscious effort for the magic which surrounded Maleficent to dissipate entirely. Her eyes, however, continued to glow, a testament to how barely she was in control of her own emotions.

“Wilfred is gone?” she asked in confirmation, ignoring the unstable tremor in her voice. 

Aurora nodded, looking up at Maleficent with watery eyes. “Some time during the night. We’ve searched the entire castle, and the staff are searching the grounds, but there’s no sign of him.” Her voice wavered, though Maleficent could see that she was making a concerted effort to control her emotions for the sake of her son.

“Where and when did you last see him?”

“I put him to bed in the annex of my bedchamber last night after the christening. I fell asleep – oh Godmother, I was so tired! Someone came in and _stole_ my _baby_ and… I didn’t… even… wake _up_ …” Aurora’s resolve crumbled. She collapsed to the floor and sobbed uncontrollably into Maleficent’s skirts.

Phillip rushed to her side, cradling her in his arms and rocking her gently.

“It’s _my_ _fault_!” Aurora wailed.

“No… no…” Phillip hushed her, “It’s _not_ your fault. You’ve hardly slept these past months, of course you’re tired, it is _not your fault_. The only one to blame is the monster who stole our son, and we are going to find him and bring him home.”

“And then _I’m going to kill them where they stand_!” Aurora roared suddenly, clenching her fists and flailing aimlessly into the air. Phillip released her in alarm. This was not a side of Aurora which emerged especially often, though he had seen her this angry once or twice before. He called it her Maleficent mood, and for good reason. Fortunately, unlike her godmother, Aurora had a naturally sweet and gentle disposition, and so even at her angriest she was unlikely to actually follow through with any threat that she might be inclined to make – he hoped.

Aurora was looking up at Maleficent again, her eyes ablaze, though she tempered her desire to scream herself hoarse when she spoke again to appeal to the older woman. “We won’t let them get away with this, will we Godmother?”

Before the Dark Fey could respond, the sound of multiple rapid wingbeats became apparent through the shattered window. She turned toward it in time to see Udo, followed closely by Shrike and Borra, tuck and roll gracefully through the opening. They landed behind her, oblivious to the shards of glass which littered the floor beneath their bare feet. Udo held out his hands and released something small, black and rumpled. Diaval.

The raven shook his ruffled feathers and looked expectantly up at his Mistress.

“Into a man.” she said quietly.

Diaval shifted quickly, his boots crunching the broken glass beneath him as he strode the short distance across the floor to embrace his fledgling at her feet. “We’re goin’ to find him, darlin’. We’re goin’ to find him.” he whispered with conviction, kissing her forehead.

Aurora trembled in her rage and grief, but she returned the raven man’s firm hold and lay her head on his shoulder. He stroked her back firmly, murmuring soft words of reassurance.

Borra stepped forward and addressed Maleficent. “Shrike, Udo and I will do an aerial search. Udo, over the sea, in case they have taken a boat toward Südland or the Saarestik Archipelago. Shrike – the kingdom of Ulstead. I will search to the north, toward Perceforest. We will return soon.”

Maleficent nodded to them, her gaze sweeping across each grave face. “You have my thanks.”

With that, the three Dark Fey flew back out through the broken window, splitting into three directions as soon as they were clear of the castle walls.

“Your Majesty!” a voice called from within the castle. “Your Majesty!” Hurried footsteps became louder, and the door to Ingrith’s chambers flew open as Lawrence hurtled into the room, out of breath and with brown piece of cloth clutched in his fists.

“Your Majesty, I’ve just come from the stables. Two of the new horses are missing as well – the ones which were gifted to Prince Wilfred for his christening.” he gasped, leaning forward and breathing hard.

“Taken as well?” asked King John.

“Most likely by the kidnappers, Your Majesty. We found this in the stables.” Lawrence handed over the brown cloth to the king, who shook it out for a better look. It was a tunic, torn almost in half down the side of the garment.

“Whose is this? I don’t recognise it.” John asked.

“I do.” Phillip said, standing and moving toward his father, “I’ve seen it before. That boy was wearing it – the one from Nystra Vígi. You remember him, Diaval, don’t you? The one who snuck up on us when we were eating pies.”

“Ekkert. He said that his name was Ekkert.” Diaval replied.

“I’m sure that this is his tunic. I remember this crest.”

“Do you recognise it, son?” the king asked Phillip. The prince shook his head.

“I only remember it from Ekkert’s clothing – and his sister’s, now that I think about it. She was wearing the same sort of tunic. I suppose it could just as easily be hers as his. The crest, though… I don’t recognise it, no.”

There was a clattering of hooves from beneath the bed, and Ingrith’s goaty head poked out with a nasal huff. She fixed her gaze on the tunic, her strange horizontal pupils narrowing in the sudden increase in light. With an alarmed bleat, she struggled out from under the bed and ran in an arc to King John’s side, giving Maleficent as wide a berth as was possible within the same room.

Ingrith jumped up on John, using him to steady herself on two legs as she inspected the tunic. She turned to him and let out a deafening bleat right in his face, spraying him with a shower of goat saliva. She jumped down again, braying madly at the tunic.

“What is it, Mother?” Phillip asked in concern. “Do you recognise the crest?”

The goat queen spun in circles, making a deafening racket, then stopped and headbutted the tunic repeatedly.

Aurora stood and fixed Maleficent with a determined look. “Mother, you have to change her back.”

Maleficent blinked. “No.”

Aurora’s eyes were like cold iron. “I don’t think you quite understand. It wasn’t a request. Change her back. She knows something, and she can’t tell us what it is because _she is a goat_. You are the only one who can give her back her voice so that she can help us to _find my son_. _Change her back_. NOW.”

The Dark Fey was taken aback.

“You heard the Queen, Mistress.” Diaval remarked, standing up as well. Maleficent gave him an incredulous look – wasn’t he supposed to be on _her_ side? – before returning to her daughter. Aurora’s face was set in sheer determination, and it was clear to Maleficent that she had no intention of being defied.

A mighty queen indeed.

She sighed, acquiescing with a pained expression. “Very well.”

Ingrith stopped spinning and stared in horror at the Dark Fey, who twirled her fingers irritably and muttered, “Into a woman.”

With a shriek, the goat metamorphosed into Ingrith the human, who emerged from the smoking mist of transformation on all fours and looking as disheveled as she had when Maleficent had changed her in the first place.

Ingrith screamed.

Covering her ears against the noise, Maleficent commented loudly, “I can change you back again if you’d like.”

Ingrith stopped screaming immediately and glared acidly at the faerie. “Bitch.”

“Charming.” Maleficent replied. “Now, before my benevolence is expended entirely, kindly explain to us the reasoning behind your little goat dance before.”

Queen Ingrith slowly hauled herself upright, glaring at Maleficent all the while. Unstable on two feet after nearly a year on all fours, she wobbled alarmingly and grabbed at King John, who held onto her arm to steady her. 

“Are you all right, Ingrith?” he asked gently. The king seemed utterly unruffled by the situation – he had seen far stranger things in the past year, after all.

“I’m… fine.” Ingrith croaked, her voice rough from lack of use. “No thanks to this creature.” She narrowed her eyes at Maleficent, who bared her fangs in response.

“Stop it, you two.” Aurora scolded. She snatched the tunic from King John’s hands and waved it under Ingrith’s nose. “You recognised this crest. Where does it come from? Who has my son?”

Ingrith’s upper lip curled into a fiendish smile. “Suddenly you need me. Incredible. I spend months stuck as _livestock_ and nobody gave it a thought, but now that I can help you, suddenly you find it within yourselves to change me back into a human.”

Phillip moved like lightning to restrain Aurora, who rounded on Ingrith with fire in her eyes. Across the room, Diaval had both of Maleficent’s wrists in his hands and was risking life and limb by moving from side to side in front of her face, intentionally obstructing her view of Ingrith and trying to distract her enough to prevent any magical retaliation.

Ingrith sneered. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” She ignored the twin glares from Aurora and Maleficent, instead choosing to smile sweetly at her husband, as though assuming he agreed wholeheartedly with her assessment.

She swiped the tunic from Aurora and examined it carefully. Arrogance gave way to disbelief as she slowly traced her finger across the delicate stitching. “It can’t be…”

“It can’t be _what_?” Maleficent snapped, twisting her wrists free of Diaval’s grasp.

The blonde woman shook her head. “I thought it was my father’s. His crest was just like this, with a bear wielding an axe in the centre. But this one, this one has a wolf instead.” Ingrith looked up, casting her eyes from Aurora to Phillip and then to John, whilst strategically ignoring the faerie and the raven. Her expression was incredulous; hope fighting for dominance over fear.

“Do you recognise the crest then, Mother?” Phillip asked.

Ingrith nodded. “I can scarcely believe it to be true. It shouldn’t be true. I haven’t seen this crest in twenty five years, and I thought that I never would again.” Her voice was strong, though the tremble of her hands betrayed the enormity of her discovery. “This crest, just like the crest of my father, save the wolf in place of the bear – I remember when it was designed. My father had a great hand in it. How could he not? He was overjoyed after so many years, and after begetting a daughter first, to finally have a male heir.” Ingrith looked up at Aurora and hissed, “Then he lost that heir to the evil creatures in the Moors. This crest, the wolf crest, belonged to my brother, Fritjof.”

Phillip’s eyes widened. “Uncle Fritjof is alive?”

“I doubt it. After all these years? He would have come back to claim his throne if he still lived.” Ingrith replied.

“Then how would you explain his crest?”

“No doubt somebody is using it – perhaps to frame him? It would hardly be surprising. Perhaps the culprit is my long-lost father? Or someone within Nystra Vígi who adopted my brother’s crest as a means of legitimising a claim to the throne? There were many noble families who would have been bold enough to attempt it, even when Fritjof was alive and my father was still a strong and powerful king.”

Phillip exhaled a shaky breath. “So we should search from here to Nyrsta Vígi for Wilfred. Father, how long will it take to call up the army?”

Before King John could reply, Aurora interrupted, “No, Phillip. I don’t think it would be safe to send an army after Wilfred. We have to consider the possibility that he was taken in order to incite a war.”

“What?!”

“What if they kill him? If whomever took him wanted him dead, they would not have made the effort to kidnap him – they would have just killed him, wouldn’t they? – but I don’t doubt that if they thought that they were cornered they would kill him immediately. As much as it terrifies me that our little boy is in the hands of a fiend, we must think about this and get him back in the safest way possible. They stole him with stealth – we need to get him back that way too.”

“How do you propose that we do that?”

Diaval stepped forward. “We’ll do it.” He turned back to Maleficent beseechingly, “Won’t we, Mistress?”

The Dark Fey regarded him for a moment and nodded firmly. “Yes.” She looked up at the others and their expressions of varying degrees of shock. “Diaval and I – and perhaps a few of the other Dark Fey, for good measure – will find and retrieve Wilfred. We can fly away rather faster than a man can ride on a horse.”

“It’s probably safer if we’re the ones who go anyway.” Diaval added. “Considerin’ that the first place we’re going to need to look is…” he trailed off, raising an apprehensive eyebrow at Maleficent.

“The northern Moors.” she finished. “The border with Nyrsta Vígi. If Prince Fritjof disappeared into the Moors, it would have been there. This crest has come from somewhere, and so the last place that Fritjof was seen is a logical place to start.”

“I’m coming with you.” Aurora insisted.

“No, Beastie.” Maleficent held up a hand, though her expression was sympathetic. “Your son needs a mother to come home to. The northern Moors are not safe – not even for me, with the protection of my magic. It is certainly not a safe place for you.”

“But I’m the Queen of the Moors!” Aurora protested.

“Those who live in the north would hardly recognise the title, Aurora. They are not at all like the creatures who acknowledge you as their queen. They would not hesitate to attack you if they felt that it was necessary, and you are human. They see you as their natural enemy. You would be in danger, moreso that I would be as another magical creature.”

“As much as it pains me to agree with the witch, she is right, Aurora.” Ingrith said with a haughty sniff, “My brother ventured within and never returned. It is best if you stay here, away from all of that.”

“Perhaps you should stay here too, Diaval.” Maleficent said seriously. He was a bold and brave soul, but without magic he was every bit as vulnerable as Aurora.

“Don’t be daft.”

“Don’t be rude.”

“I’m comin’, even if I have to dangle from your ankles all the way there.”

Maleficent raised an eyebrow as though daring him to go ahead and try such a thing. The mental image of him clinging for dear life and trying not to scream as she soared through the clouds above him was amusing, to say the least.

Diaval’s expression was fierce, and Maleficent knew that there was no sense in arguing with him, though in his human form he would be in as much danger as Aurora would be. She might have to keep him a raven for his own safety, but at least she could _do_ that with Diaval. Perhaps she could even try the Dark Fey shapeshift again – even lacking magic, having the shape alone would help to protect him.

“Very well.” she acquiesced. “We will wait until Udo, Borra and Shrike return with their reports, and then we will go. In the meantime, Ingrith,” Maleficent smiled her fangiest smile, “You can tell us everything that you know about your father, your brother, his disappearance, and the state of Nyrsta Vígi when you left it, so that Diaval and I have some idea of what we will be walking into.”


	7. Chapter 7

Night had long since fallen and the townsfolk relaxed into the hushed embrace of slumber when they landed softly in the town square, though they were careful to alight in a place of shadow nonetheless. Four enormous pairs of wings, their individual colours muted into shades of black and grey in the cold moonlight, rustled and rested from the long flight. Above them, soaring as though he had not just flown harder and faster than any of them just to keep up, the raven circled the extravagant fountain in the centre of the town square like a feathered harbinger before coming to rest on his Mistress’ shoulder with a weary sigh.

They had flown for most of the day and well into the night to reach this place, stopping only for water along the way. None had complained or insisted upon a slower pace, however – the urgency of the situation having spurred them on whenever fatigue threatened to overcome them. Prince Wilfred had been missing, as best they could estimate, for a full day now, and they were hardly any closer to learning his whereabouts. At least here, in the southern Nyrsta Vígi town of Konungr Heima, there was a chance that they may find an answer.

Beyond the town centre to the north, as imposing as it was magnificent, stood a towering castle of polished granite. The former childhood home of Queen Ingrith and her brother Fritjof had been constructed at least a century earlier, but the stones were meticulously maintained in order to retain the glossy appearance for which the castle was renowned throughout the known world. The walls reflected the moonlight as though illuminated from within, giving the structure an eerie appearance in comparison to the sensible and sedate little town which surrounded it.

Further north, beyond the outer limits of the town and the farms around it, a great plain rolled for miles into the darkness, barren but for occasional shrubs and tufts of hardy grasses which battled their way through a layer of permafrost in search of the weak summer sunshine. Little could be seen of the plain at night, even when illuminated by the full moon, and it appeared as though the darkness swallowed up the land itself.

To the south in the near distance lay the northern Moors. Though it was difficult to see properly in the near-darkness, it was abundantly clear that the impenetrable undergrowth beneath the tangle of trees and vines hid darker and more dangerous country than the Moors which they were accustomed to – a land of wickedness and malignance into which only the bravest of fools would venture. Maleficent shuddered in spite of herself, thankful to the shadows surrounding her for hiding her instinctive reaction from all but Diaval on her shoulder. His talons tightened momentarily; he understood – no doubt agreed, in fact – though he would never insult her by mentioning it aloud, even if he were capable of doing so in his raven form.

Shrike gestured to the other Fey, herding them in closely so that she could speak as quietly as possible. “There is little that we can do at this hour. We need to find somewhere to rest, so that we can begin reconnaissance at first light.”

A warrior first and foremost, there was little chance of anyone disagreeing with Shrike’s assessment, although Maleficent stiffened in opposition before accepting the logic in the other Fey’s words. It was dark, and the townsfolk were asleep. The northern Moors were certainly likely to be more dangerous during the night, and they were dangerous enough during the day.

And truthfully, they did need to rest if they had any hope of finding a useful lead which might help them to find Wilfred.

“Come.” she whispered, taking off again as quietly as possible toward the outskirts of Konungr Heima. Spying a sprawling farm with a large green barn located some distance from the farmhouse, she flew closer. Yes, that would do nicely.

“Follow me.” Maleficent called softly, and dived down to the thickly thatched roof of the barn.

The upper window of the barn was easy enough to open, and by tucking her wings in tightly to her body, she was able to squeeze through, rolling forward into the dusty hayloft. She sneezed. It was not the cleanest of places, and there was a very definite odour of mouse, but it would do for shelter for the few hours that they needed it.

Shrike and Udo quickly followed Maleficent through the window, and together, the three of them pulled Borra through the opening – he was far more muscular than they, which made the tight fit even tighter.

“Can we leave through the door in the morning?” Borra asked sardonically. He shook his feathers and flopped down onto a pile of hay, his arms folded behind his head. His eyes found Maleficent and followed her as she returned to the window.

“I’ll consider it. Perhaps.” she drawled, eliciting a flirtatious smile from Borra.

Maleficent leaned through the open window. “Diaval?” she called in a whisper, unwilling to raise her voice any further lest she awaken the humans in the farmhouse. He was surely out there somewhere, though she had lost sight of him during the short flight from the town.

A flutter of feathers answered her, and the annoyed-looking raven landed on the windowsill, clicking his beak at her irritably. He glared at her for leaving him lagging, but she studiously ignored his expression and his scolding noises. Instead, she scooped him up like a bundle of blankets and brought him into the barn.

Diaval briefly considered wriggling out of her grasp and sulking in the rafters, just to drive home the point that he was a bit grumpy with her for not considering his smaller and more tired wings, but the night was cold and Maleficent was certainly not, so he reluctantly opted for forgiveness and warmth, at least this time.

Besides, he approved of her choice of shelter. This barn smelled _delicious_.

Maleficent joined Udo and Shrike as they made a circle in front of the hay pile on which Borra lounged. Shrike had cleared a small patch of floor of fallen hay and was drawing a simple map in the dust with her finger. Udo had removed the worn leather satchel which he strapped to his front during flight and was offering around pieces of fruit.

“We will need to split up tomorrow.” Shrike remarked.

“Indeed.” Maleficent replied, accepting an apple from Udo with a curt smile of gratitude. “We need to explore the northern Moors, as it is our most promising lead on the crest, but there is also investigation to be done at the castle.”

“Why the castle?” Borra asked suspiciously. “It’s full of humans.”

“According to Ingrith,” Maleficent curled her upper lip, “The castle was seized by the people in the coup which saw her father overthrown. It is now used by the Arbiter, who is king in all but name. It is possible that the Arbiter is behind Wilfred’s kidnapping – he is, after all, the newest member of the former royal family, and therefore a threat to the power of the current ruler. We need to ascertain if the Arbiter is using Fritjof’s crest, and if there is a chance that he is responsible.” Maleficent replied.

Borra nodded.

“Udo, I trust that you will be able to engage diplomatically with the humans, should it come to having to speak to them?” He was the best choice for anything requiring delicacy – level-headed and kind, Udo exuded a quiet strength and fidelity which made others inclined to trust him almost immediately. Though Maleficent’s preference was to have no human contact at all, she was aware that it was potentially unavoidable.

“Of course. Perhaps it would be wise if I were to be accompanied, though. We do not know these humans, or how they may react. A second pair of eyes and ears would be a valuable addition.”

“Agreed.” Maleficent replied. Shrike or Borra, though? Not Diaval, certainly. Though he was even better at diplomacy than Udo, and in his human shape, far more likely to win over the Nyrsta Vígans, he was also without magic of any kind. He was utterly without a means of protection should the humans react unfavourably to their presence – or worse, were the ones behind the kidnapping, in which case there would be no opportunity for diplomacy at all. She wanted to keep Diaval with her, so that she could be certain of his welfare, if not his actual safety. She stroked his feathers as he lay snuggled in her lap, a gesture as calming for herself as it was for him. He was almost purring, the spoiled creature. No doubt if she continued, he would fall asleep entirely. It would not be the first time.

Borra was a powerful warrior, and would be useful should the situation come to blows, but he could also be impulsive and prone to outbursts of rage, particularly when it came to humans and their unwillingness to treat the Dark Fey with due fairness. No, definitely not Borra. Maleficent had no desire to initiate another war.

Shrike, then. The Jungle Fey was the logical choice. As fierce as Borra, but almost as levelheaded as Udo, she would fight to the death if necessary, but also do whatever was necessary to avoid it coming to that in the first place.

“Shrike, you will accompany Udo to the castle. Try not to be seen until you have a sense of the situation if you can, but if it is unavoidable, please see if you can make the humans see reason and give us the information we need. You are permitted to disclose the broader circumstances of Prince Wilfred’s kidnapping, but please try not to lay the blame directly upon Nyrsta Vígi if it can be helped.”

Diaval sat up in Maleficent’s lap and gave a short, sharp squawk. She looked down at him with a slight smile. “You? You’ll be with me and Borra, exploring the reaches of the northern Moors in search of a missing prince.”

Diaval turned to the reclined Desert Fey and huffed in disapproval. Borra sneered at him. Neither were especially thrilled at the prospect of spending an entire day in each other’s company.

“We will leave just before sunrise and return here after sunset to debrief.” Maleficent continued, ignoring the minor pissing contest occurring before her. “For now, we should all get some rest – _Diaval_!”

The raven had leapt suddenly from her lap, flapping swiftly and diving straight at Borra’s face. The Dark Fey rolled out of the way in alarm, falling in a heap on the dirty floor beside the hay pile. Diaval landed roughly in the hay itself, disappearing completely into the pile.

“Raven!” Borra shouted angrily as he picked himself up, balling his fists in rage.

Diaval’s little black head poked out from the pile of hay, sending pieces of it flying. He wriggled frantically to free himself, labourously rolling out of the hole that he had made and down onto the floor with a squawk of victory. Clutched in his talons and twitching slightly in the throes of death was a large grey mouse, staring at the four Dark Fey with beady, unseeing eyes.

Diaval regarded Borra with an avian expression of utter innocence, never once breaking eye contact, as he bent down and carefully began to tear apart his prize.

He’d been after the mouse, after all. Ravens had to eat too, and it was such a lovely fat mouse, scurrying around beneath the hay such that only his keen predatory senses were able to hear and smell it. Scaring the daylights out of Borra had just been a lovely bonus, and Diaval had no regrets whatsoever – particularly considering that he could see Maleficent in his peripheral vision, trying not to laugh.

Udo clapped Borra on the shoulder and smiled. “I am most grateful to not be a mouse.” he remarked. Borra said nothing, though he continued to glare at Diaval, who ignored him in favour of gobbling rodent intestines.

“Sleep. We only have a few hours until first light.” Shrike ordered. She carefully rearranged an armful of hay into an ad hoc nest for herself, well away from where Diaval was demolishing the dead mouse, and Udo followed suit. Borra lay back down on his pile of hay and rolled over, away from the growing puddle of blood on the floor. He snorted derisively.

“Yes,” Maleficent agreed, “We should all get some sleep. Even you, Diaval, once you’ve finished that mouse. Eat quickly.” She arranged her own mound of hay into a comfortable shape and lay down, curling her wings around herself for warmth. 

She did not sleep immediately, though. Instead, she watched the raven with tired green eyes as he carefully devoured every morsel of his prey, leaving only a pile of bones and a smear of blood on the floorboards. When he was done, he hopped over to Maleficent, who lifted a wing for him to burrow beneath as she had done countless times before.

Nestled into the crook of her arm and deliciously warm, Diaval quickly fell into an exhausted sleep.

Maleficent, however, remained awake for some time. Her promise to Aurora remained foremost on her mind, and she prayed to whichever gods might have been listening to protect little Wilfred until he could be returned to his mother and father. She hoped that he had somewhere warm and safe to rest his downy head tonight.

She had not wanted to leave Aurora behind, not really. Had the situation been different, and had it been Aurora who had been taken, no power on Earth could have stopped her from trying to find her daughter. Maleficent recognised that same deeply instinctual need to _do something_ in Aurora that she knew to be true of herself, and understood just how difficult it was for the Queen to force herself to stay behind, knowing that the recovery of her precious child had a better chance of success without her.

Her Beastie was braver than she knew.

Tonight, no doubt, Aurora lay in Phillip’s arms, most likely wide awake as well and longing for her son. She would be calm, at least to outward appearances, though inside she would be a tumult of emotions. 

Tonight, a little boy cried for his mother, not understanding why she did not come. Hungry for her warm milk and lonely for her gentle touch, alone in the harsh world for the first time in his life.

Tonight, two kingdoms held their breath anxiously, hoping and praying for a miracle, and dreading what might happen if that miracle did not come.

Tonight, Maleficent promised herself that she would make that miracle happen or die trying.

Diaval shifted slightly in his sleep, and Maleficent unconsciously threaded her fingertips through his satiny feathers, stroking gently until he settled. He had tucked his head beneath his wing, and the tiniest avian snore could be heard through his feathers. He relaxed with a soft little coo and cuddled in closer, seeking her warmth.

Perhaps someday, Aurora would be able to live a stable, boring and uneventful life, without curses and catastrophes and kidnappings.

They would find Wilfred. They had to find him, safe and well. The alternative did not bear thinking about.

Maleficent sighed and closed her eyes, trying to redirect her thoughts for long enough to succumb to the fatigue which ached within her bones like malevolent magic. Wrapping her wings snugly around herself like the tight embrace of a lover, Maleficent focused on the sound of Diaval’s steady, rhythmic breathing, using his quiet calm as a means of slowly lulling herself to sleep.

* * *

Maleficent, Diaval and the Dark Fey accompanying them had scarcely disappeared into the thin, swirling wisps of summer clouds above Ulstead when Aurora sprang into action.

She would stay behind, yes, although every instinct within her being told her to tear the world apart with her bare hands in search of her son. She would stay behind and let those who had a better chance of success conduct the search in her stead, but she would not be idle. She would not sit around waiting and do nothing in the meantime.

She had no desire to begin a war, but that did not mean that a war would not begin regardless.

By the window in Ingrith’s chambers, as her godparents flew north in search of her baby, Aurora raised her chin and took a deep breath. She had to be strong for the sake of her son. She was the queen of one kingdom and a princess of two others, and she would not allow this to best her.

She fixed her steady gaze on her husband, every inch a formidable queen despite the red puffiness of her eyes and the bedraggled mess of her hair and clothing. He recognised the tenacity in her eyes; the spirited, resolute and impressive woman who had captured his heart.

“We need to be ready.” Aurora stated unequivocally.

Phillip understood immediately. “I will mobilise the army and have them deploy around Ulstead to reinforce the town defences. What of the Moors?”

“I will notify the Tree Guardians and the Dark Fey of the potential situation and have them remain on alert. When Maleficent comes back with Wilfred,” she swallowed hard, hoping that it would prove that straightforward, “There may be an attack, and we cannot be certain as to where or by whom. He may have been taken as a means of antagonising Ulstead _or_ the Moors, or indeed both. Until we have a better understanding of what it is that we are dealing with, we need to ensure that we are fully prepared on every front.”

Aurora turned, suddenly aware of Ingrith’s eyes upon her. She stared the older queen down, daring her to contradict her assessment. Astonishingly, beneath the cold glower of Ingrith’s default expression, Aurora was cognisant of something almost like approval, as though she had passed an unconscious test of her resilience and strength as a ruler.

Apparently, the complicated matter of ruling humans was still possible when one ran around barefoot with flowers in her hair after all.

“Come on, son, the sooner we begin to organise a defensive, the sooner Ulstead will be safe.” King John said to Phillip. The prince nodded, and the two men left Ingrith’s chambers.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty, I am going to go to the Moors and consult with the Tree Guardians.” Aurora said to her mother-in-law. She passed Lawrence, who had stood silently at the door since arriving from the stables with the tunic, and murmured softly to him, “Please ensure that Her Majesty remains in her chambers for the moment.”

Ingrith scowled venomously as Aurora closed the door behind her.

A horse. She needed a horse.

Ordinarily, Aurora would have gladly taken the extra time to walk through the Moors to her castle. There was no more beautiful country on Earth, and the journey within was always enough of a joy to fill her heart with light. Today, however, with her baby stolen and the threat of conflict looming once again, she had no time for admiring the loveliness of her adopted kingdom. At least she had the option of a horse, now that the bridge was completed.

Aurora pulled her cloak tightly about her, hoping that she would not be recognised and therefore delayed in her departure. It was mid-morning, and the day was already warming, but the cloak was a light woolen weave and did not overheat her. She would remove it once she had crossed into the Moors anyway. She winced as her arms brushed against her bound breasts. She would need to sort something out there fairly shortly, but time was of the essence and personal comfort would have to take a step back for the moment.

She encountered no resistance in entering the stables, which were devoid of people. The stablehands had been sent out into Ulstead as a part of the coordinated search for Prince Wilfred, and none had yet returned.

The horses whinnied and nickered at she tiptoed past them, searching for a horse which would not be easily missed. Her own horse, a pretty smoky cream mare which she had named Bonnie, had recently foaled and was still nursing her colt. Aurora had no desire to separate another mother from their child. Another horse would have to do.

Toward the far end of the stables, Aurora discovered four unfamiliar bays, almost identical to each other with their shiny brown coats and thick black manes. The two stalls at the very end of the building were empty, though the piles of droppings within them provided ample evidence of recent occupation.

These were the horses from Nyrsta Vígi. Lawrence had said that two of the six which had been gifted for the christening had disappeared, along with Wilfred and those who had taken him.

One of the new horses ambled toward her, nosing her shoulder in search of a treat. They had clearly all been well cared for by their previous owners – spoiled, even, if the behaviour of this young mare was anything to go by – and the thought gave Aurora unexpected hope that her baby would be well treated by whomever had him. She stroked the horse’s nose gently.

“I suppose you’ll do, girl.” she said, and let herself into the stall to saddle the horse up. The horse nuzzled her on the way past, blowing air from her nostrils and tickling the young queen.

They had certainly been well looked after. The mare stood patiently as Aurora covered her back with a rug and lifted the saddle into place, clearly very tame and well used to being ridden.

“Good girl.” Aurora said kindly, petting the horse’s flank and scratching her neck.

She led the horse from the stables and to the mounting block beside them, lifting herself up and into the saddle with practiced ease. Grasping the reigns, Aurora was about to lead her horse into a trot toward the castle gates when she spied something poking out from within the coarse black hairs of her mane.

She carefully untangled the object, winding the hair from around it without tugging and hurting the horse. It had been deliberated tied in there, and very securely at that. It took several minutes of careful untangling in order to free it.

It was a small roll of parchment, torn at the edges and stained with hair oil from the horse. A mere scrap, scribbled on with a piece of charcoal – something which may have gone unnoticed for days until the horse was next groomed. Aurora quickly unrolled it, squinting through the smudges at the sprawling, poorly-formed words that it contained.

_Kween Arora. I am sory. We hadd no choiss. Master tolld us to taik yor Baby. I wil keep him saif._

Aurora stifled a sob, as much from anger as from relief, and bit her lower lip hard to avoid spooking the horse. The note was unsigned, but she was in little doubt of the authorship of it, especially considering where she had found it. It had to be Ekkert, or his sister Vætki. All evidence pointed to them as having been the ones who stole Wilfred.

Clearly they were working under orders, but the writer of the note had not identified their master – though it was possible that they did not actually know their master’s true name, Aurora mused. Both Ekkert and Vætki were young, and may well have been in their master’s service for many years. It was a deeply concerning scenario.

They had promised to keep her baby safe. It hardly meant anything, really – if they had truly wanted to keep him safe, then they would not have taken him in the first instance – but the promise gave her hope that he would be well treated until Maleficent and Diaval found him.

And they _would_ find him. Of that, Aurora had no doubt.

If only Ekkert and Vætki had thought to confide in her. She could – she _would_ – have protected them, and none of this would have happened. Still, it was too late for questions of _what if_ and thoughts of _if only_ now.

She dug her heels into the sides of the horse, her cloak billowing behind her like a great pair of indigo wings as they galloped to the castle gate, the bridge, and the Moors beyond.

* * *

The sky was still a dull shade of grey, barely beginning to lighten on the eastern horizon, as the four Dark Fey and the raven stealthy took wing from the window of the barn. As they approached the town of Konungr Heima they split; two veering toward the northern part of the town in the direction of the castle, and three turning south, to the shadowy Moors.

Circling the quiescent castle on the hushed whisper of wings, Shrike and Udo deftly descended to the upper terrace on the eastern end, which reflected the light of the rising sun from the polished stone as though the walls themselves were gilded.

The castle ran lengthways on an east-west axis, with the bulk of the structure on the western end. The upper terrace abutted a large gallery to the north and the formal royal living quarters to the west, and looked out onto a vast ornamental garden, which was coated in a thin layer of hoarfrost from the overnight chill.

Shrike forced back a shiver, wishing that she had thought to bring a cloak for the cooler northern weather, and made for the intricately detailed handle of the terrace door. It glowed red as her hand approached it, and she hissed angrily. It was solid iron.

Udo moved beside her and wrapped his hand in a fold of his cloak. With a barrier against the iron, he tried to turn the handle, jiggling it up and down. It was locked.

“This is not an insurmountable problem.” he commented, raising his hands and summoning his magic. Thin vines rose up from the icy ground below and twisted upwards onto the terrace. Two pointed ends inserted themselves neatly into the lock, turning and twisting within for several seconds. 

With a soft ‘snick’, the door unlocked. The vines withdrew and retreated to the ground again as Udo lowered his hands.

“That’s an interesting trick,” Shrike remarked as Udo carefully turned the handle with the protection of his cloak, “I’ll have to remember that one.”

The two Dark Fey cautiously entered the room, which appeared to be some sort of library. The walls to both right and left were lined with bookshelves as high as the ceiling and stacked with innumerable volumes bound in leather and cloth. The middle of the room was dominated by a large carved wooden desk with claw feet, which was covered in a messy stack of parchments.

Shrike covered the distance to the desk in three long strides and examined the parchments whilst Udo crept across the room to the door, listening intently.

“I hear nothing.” he said, “The humans do not yet appear to have risen for the day.”

“Have a look at this.” Shrike said, beckoning him over. “It’s a map of Nyrsta Vígi.”

The map had been inked upon a long piece of parchment, and detailed the locations of not only the capital, Konungr Heima, but also the other towns and villages which were dotted along the southern border beside the Moors. The land itself continued for many miles to the north, almost the distance between Konungr Heima and Ulstead again, with only a few tiny dots indicating the presence of settlements in the frozen wasteland of Nyrsta Vígi’s interior. To the far west, a swath of white indicated the presence of a massive inland glacier, and at the northernmost point of the land, an enormous mountain range created a natural barrier to any who may choose to enter the country – or indeed, leave.

“It must be all but unliveable further north.”

“Perhaps for you Jungle Fey, Shrike. It seems quite habitable to me.” Udo teased.

“Yes, well, you Tundra types are all a bit strange. Give me humidity any day.” she replied with a wink. With a cheeky grin, Shrike rolled up the map and secured it with a piece of string. “What?” she asked, aware of Udo’s questioning expression, “It’s a useful map, I’m not leaving it here.”

“A good point. It may be of considerable value in planning our next move.”

Udo returned to the door and quietly turned the handle with a fold of his cloak, pulling it just far enough to peer into the hallway outside.

“Deserted.” he whispered over his shoulder to Shrike. The Jungle Fey nodded and joined him at the door. She looked both ways with a calculating expression.

“I think we should go right.”

Udo inclined his head in consent, and the pair of Dark Fey crept into the hallway, silent but for the soft swishing of feathers upon the stone floor.

The entire castle appeared to have been constructed from stone, inside and out, and little effort had been spared in making it appear more homely on the inside. Intricate tapestries depicting large-scale battles and the slaying of dragons, bears and wolves lined the walls, but did nothing to detract from the chill and the echoes which bounced off the bare polished stone. If this was where Ingrith had grown up, it was little wonder that she had become such an angry individual. It was a miserable place, and even more so for a child.

Some way along the hallway, Shrike paused and put a finger to her lips, then pointed to a door on her left. A moment later, a strangled snore issued from within the room. The castle was inhabited after all.

Motioned to Udo to keep moving, Shrike continued ahead, peeking around a corner to ensure that there were no humans around. Dawn had already broken, and she assumed that if there was one human in the castle, there were likely more. It was only a matter of time before the whole place was swarming, and she had no desire to interact with the Nyrsta Vígans if it could at all be helped.

At the end of the hallway they found a resplendent set of double doors, carved with an elaborate battle scene. Udo used his cloak as a makeshift glove once again, and ushered Shrike into the room within.

It appeared to be some sort of meeting room. High ceilings were held aloft with visible buttresses and beams, most of which were hidden behind impressive silk hangings of royal purple and black. In the centre of the room was a large rectangular table surrounded by uncomfortable-looking straight-backed wooden chairs. At the head of the table sat what could only be called a throne, despite Nyrsta Vígi ostensibly having no king.

The table had been set for a meeting; that much was clear from the numerous decanters of wine and the crystal glasses at each place.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway behind them, sharp against the solid stone floor. Exchanging a glance, both Udo and Shrike took to wing, flying up between the ornate hanging silks and coming to rest on the top of a support beam. They could no longer see the table properly, but they could also no longer be seen.

The double doors opened, and a bearded man in a flamboyant crimson robe edged with ermine tails sashayed into the room. Behind him, an emaciated-looking page trudged in, holding an impressive stack of parchments and looking utterly miserable. He deposited the stack at the head of the table, and poured a generous quantity of wine into the glass which waited there.

The older man sat heavily in the throne and drained the glassful of wine in a single, practiced motion. He waved it at the page, who dutifully refilled it.

Over the next ten minutes, nobles made their way into the meeting room, taking seats around the table until they numbered twelve. Finally, when the last noble had taken his place, the man at the head of the table began to speak.

“Greetings, my advisors. I have no doubt that you are all aware of why I have called you here this morning, however, in the event that you are not,” he paused, gulping another mouthful of wine, “We are here this morning in order to discuss the increasing problem to our north.”

One of the younger nobles leaned forward. “The Warlock, Arbiter?” Up in the rafters, Shrike leaned closer to hear.

The Arbiter nodded. “The Warlock. The hellborn creature from the Moors who made himself at home in our land and seems to be gaining in strength and power with each passing day.” He finished his wine and waved it at his page again.

“Has he encroached upon the southern regions, Arbiter?”

Another noble, seated to the right of the Arbiter and clearly his second-in-command, spoke up. “Not personally, no. He has a servant – a slave, perhaps – and he have been seen in several towns of late. A boy, perhaps around fifteen. But the boy is a simpleton, and he talks more than he thinks, so we have had numerous reports of what the Warlock is doing even though he has not been seen himself.”

“The servant has spoken to people?”

“Almost compulsively. No doubt his master has no idea of how much he tells strangers. We know, for example, that the Warlock has based himself in the Ísfjöll, in the ruins of the ancient castle Járnahöll. A wise choice, perhaps, as even in ruins it is all but impenetrable because of the mountains surrounding it. The boy is also extremely fond of horses.”

“Enough.” snapped the Arbiter. “I did not call you here to discuss an idiot boy. This Warlock poses a threat to both this country and my rule, and he must be eliminated.”

An awkward silence fell over the assembled men, though none were brave enough to remind the Arbiter that he was not, in fact, a king.

A loud knocking issued from the double doors, and thirteen heads turned toward the unexpected interruption. The Arbiter’s page moved to admit the visitor.

It was a messenger, clearly exhausted and shaking in terror.

“Why are you here?” demanded the Arbiter.

The messenger swallowed hard and drew himself up in feigned bravery. “I come with news from the country of Ulstead, my lord.” he said.

“Well?”

“Two nights ago, the young Prince Wilfred was stolen from his cradle. Kidnapped, sir, by an unknown abductor. At the time I left, no culprit had been identified.”

Above the assembly, Udo and Shrike exchanged a look. Obviously this messenger had left before the clues which had led them to Nyrsta Vígi had been discovered, or Aurora and Phillip were keeping quiet on just how much they knew. It was probably for the best, as nobody in Nyrsta Vígi would be looking out for them.

The Arbiter was stroking his beard and chuckling. “Well, what do you know? Somebody out there has performed a great favour for me.” He winked at the messenger, who squirmed in discomfort. “The prince was second in line to the defunct throne of Nyrsta Vígi. A potential rival, once he grew old enough. Perhaps that will no longer be of concern.”

Shrike dearly wanted to strangle the man. She had little patience for corrupt and power-hungry rulers in general, but to applaud the kidnapping of a helpless child was a special kind of wretched. She felt Udo’s cool hand on her shoulder, and realised that she had been poised to attack. Shrike sat back, inclining her head at Udo to reassure him that she was in control of herself, even if the Arbiter was a pig of a human being who deserved a hearty punch in the face.

The messenger excused himself, and the meeting continued for some hours. Plans were made, ridiculed by the Arbiter and discarded for increasingly ludicrous reasons as the wine continued to flow. It was patently obvious that the nobles were waiting for the Arbiter to drink himself into a stupor, and they were not disappointed. Shortly after the midday meal had been cleared away by the servants, the Arbiter belched loudly and slumped forward with a deafening snore.

This was clearly the cue that the nobles had been waiting for. Four of them took the Arbiter’s arms and legs, dragging him through the doors to his chambers, and the remaining eight made haste behind them. Within a matter of minutes, Udo and Shrike were the only ones remaining in the room.

“Don’t get excited,” Shrike muttered, “We’re stuck here until after nightfall.”


	8. Chapter 8

In the feeble grey light of the oncoming dawn, Maleficent and Borra landed before the crumbling stone wall which delineated the border between Nyrsta Vígi and the northern Moors. Beside them, Diaval swooped and became a man without breaking his stride, accustomed as he was to his Mistress’ habits. He took up his usual position beside Maleficent and regarded the wall.

“How long ago do you reckon the humans built this?” he queried, “It’s fallin’ to pieces.”

Constructed from granite, most likely from the same source as the castle, the wall stretched in both directions as far as the eye could see, disappearing to the east and west into the early morning mist. Unlike the castle, which had been meticulously maintained, the wall had clearly been built and almost immediately abandoned; forgotten so long as it continued to fulfil its purpose of keeping the two lands separate. It was not especially high in the areas which remained intact – no more than six feet tall – and it was obvious that it was intended as more of a deterrent rather than a true barrier.

“Centuries? Perhaps longer. I doubt that the humans venture close enough to the Moors to have noticed the state of their wall.” Maleficent replied. It was obvious enough that the citizens of Konungr Heima seldom approached the border; the town itself stopped abruptly some half a mile to their north, as though amputated by a giant sword.

Diaval shivered and rubbed his hands against his upper arms in an attempt to warm himself. Though it was summer, they were a long way further north than he was accustomed to, and there was a noticeable chill in the morning air. If this was what passed for summer in Nyrsta Vígi, he hated to think of what the winters must be like. No wonder Ingrith had grown up to be such a miserable creature. He almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

Without a word, Maleficent crooked a finger in his direction, altering his usual open-necked linen tunic into a long feather-lined coat of soft leather. He drew it in around himself, smiling his thanks, and noticed that she had added to her own garment something similarly warm; a heavy green and black brocade wool cloak.

Turning to Borra, Maleficent asked, “Are you cold?” and raised a hand in preparation.

“It’s not that cold.” he sneered, glaring at Diaval, though a cloud of condensation accompanied his huff of derision. He prowled over to the wall and hooked a leg over the broken stones, hoisting himself up and over the top.

“Suit yourself.” Maleficent replied.

“The ground vegetation is thick in here.” came Borra’s voice from the other side of the wall. “Vines and ferns – plants which grow well in low light and moisture. It’s nothing like the Moors that we know.”

Maleficent approached the wall and looked over to find that Borra’s assessment was quite correct. It would be slow going through such dense undergrowth, and the trees and dangling plants were far too close together to allow them to safely fly. She sighed and lifted herself over the crumbling section of wall to the Moors side.

“We stick together.” Maleficent instructed as Diaval jumped down beside her. “Eyes and ears open. Most of these plants are unfamiliar, and we have no knowledge of whether they are dangerous or not. If anything untoward happens, we fly straight up and out.”

“If we can.” grunted Borra, tilting his head upward toward the impenetrable canopy of interwoven tree branches.

“It may not come to that in any case.”

“So which way do we go?” Diaval asked. “Ingrith wasn’t too clear on the details once we got here, after all.”

Maleficent pointed to a tree just inside the forest. “We follow the marks that Fritjof left on the trees.” Sure enough, there was a very definite slash mark on the bark of the tree, made by a sword as a trail marker many years before. 

“If we mark our path clearly as well, then we will be able to retrace our steps if we need to change direction.” As Maleficent spoke, she sent a sparkling pulse of magic toward a nearby tree. A bright blue lily with petals as long as broadswords burst from one of the branches; startlingly obvious against the greens and browns of the rest of the forest.

Diaval suspected that it was a botanical invention of his Mistress’ own; true lilies, after all, were neither vivid cobalt nor enormous, and they certainly did not sport the vicious, inch-long blood red thorns that Maleficent’s flower had sprouted. What _was_ it with her and _thorns_?

The trio, following Fritjof’s tree marks, began a slow trudge southward through the unforgiving undergrowth, though the two Dark Fey made liberal use of their herbaceous magic in order to more easily traverse the denser sections.

The pervading pungent, mildewy scent of decomposing vegetation and loamy soil assaulted their nostrils, adding unpleasantly to an atmosphere which felt too dense to comfortably breathe; a putrescent miasma of malaise which sapped away both energy and hope. Vines draped earthward from the branches of the gnarled and twisted trees, hanging like strands of thick juniper hair, and tangled in wings and limbs as they fought their way along. Moisture from the cold mist clung and gathered until all three were uncomfortably wet, and unexpected quagmires appeared without warning in the undergrowth, sucking their feet into slow eddies of heavy mud.

Maleficent shook water from her wings and frowned, wondering why anyone in their right mind would choose to live in such a place. For all of the plant life, it was a miserable and desolate land, and she could easily understand how a pampered young princeling could have become disorientated and lost within it. In truth, her lilies were proving to be invaluable as the forest closed in around them, obscuring within minutes any sign that a world existed beyond the Moors.

She could not determine if her growing discomfort was a product of the strange and unnerving environment through which they were travelling, or due to her two companions, who had positioned themselves on either side of her and were assiduously ignoring each other in light of the mouse incident the previous night. An improvement from outright hostility, but Maleficent found that being caught quite literally in the middle of their unspoken feud added further unpleasantness to what was already an unpleasant venture.

Particularly as her thoughts regarding the both of them were as turbulent as the wind in a summer squall.

Though she had scoffed at the notion to Diaval as they sat together beneath the light of the moon on that contented night not so long ago, Maleficent had indeed given further thought to the idea of Borra as a mate, though she had yet to identify any additional arguments in his favour over and above anyone else. He would make sense, he had always made sense in purely dynastical terms, and convincing him would be simple enough – he was undoubtedly attracted to her. Perhaps more so than was reasonable; he was becoming somewhat physical in the hope of tempting her, and she was found herself shying away whenever he tried to touch her. It was not intentional, but she was not yet comfortable with the idea of allowing that. Touching was… difficult.

Stefan’s ghost haunted her still, it seemed.

Then, of course, there was the issue of Diaval. Considering their animosity, Maleficent had little doubt that Borra would reject Diaval’s ongoing presence in her life, at least in his present capacity as a companion and confidante. The raven man would accept it if she had to distance herself from him for the sake of a jealous mate, but it would upset him. He certainly would not like it.

Neither would she.

She would, of course, adapt to his absence. To no longer falling asleep to the sounds of his breathing, or waking up to his far-too-cheerful-for-early-morning demeanour. She would become used to no longer finding shiny little gifts in her nest, or being shyly presented with basketfuls of fresh, sun-ripened berries, his dark eyes twinkling behind thick lashes as she thanked him. She would learn not to long for soaring into the clouds with him, tumbling and twirling along columns of rising air as they played in the warmth of the sun. His gentle hands tenderly preening her wings, reverently smoothing and cleaning her feathers until they were as sleek and lustrous as fine silk. His feathers, delicate and soft beneath her fingers. His arms, strong and reassuring when they came around her, his body warm and comforting, pleasing and tempting in ways that she tried very hard to avoid thinking about.

Someday, she would learn how to exist without his calm, his kindness, his devotion. 

Whether or not she would find the same understanding and deep inner strength in Borra remained to be seen, but if not, she had no qualms about withdrawing into herself. As it was before she had transformed a doomed raven, so it could be again.

She would choose a mate based upon his suitability, and the indisputable fact that she did _not_ love him and likely never would beyond a comfortable fondness. Love seldom ended well, particularly for her, and she would not allow herself to be that vulnerable. Love was an unstable variable which had no place in her decision-making. She would love her Beastie and her grandson, she would love any children who may result from her mating, but she would not – she would _not_ – fall prey to notions of true love with a mate.

She hardly deserved such love anyway.

Borra was a suitable choice, and she would inform him of her decision to take him as her mate once they had found Wilfred and returned to the Moors.

Her decision all but made, Maleficent returned her attention to her surroundings in just enough time to snatch Diaval from the reach of a seven-foot-tall plant, which had wound a number of sickly grey tentacles around his arms and legs and was drawing him in toward a large mouthlike flower, which was lined with hundreds of sharp spines which continued down into the interior of the plant. It snapped in their direction as though displeased at being denied its breakfast.

Wide-eyed and ashen-faced, Diaval exhaled with a shudder. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out.

Maleficent gave his shoulder a quick squeeze and kept walking, ignoring Borra’s snort of laughter.

Diaval, perpetually cognisant of the presence of his own kind, was unnerved by the complete lack of birdsong. Instead, he could hear the faintest hum of low sound; whispers and creaks from the shadows which sent chills up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. 

He wondered if the sounds were a sign of fae folk. At home, they would have passed hundreds of tiny faeries in the hour or so that they had spent traipsing through the undergrowth, but in this place, they had not encountered a single being, magical or otherwise. Diaval could feel the thrum of magic in the air, though – unfamiliar in tone, but not dissimilar to that which he experienced in the Moors he knew.

He glanced over at his Mistress, who trudged along doggedly with a scowl on her face. If he felt the magical undercurrents as a gentle buzz, her perception was likely far greater. He was about to ask her if it felt different to her when Borra, of course Borra, it had to be _Borra_ along on this expedition with them, spoke instead.

“Perhaps we should look for a place to stop for a short time.”

Diaval couldn’t help himself. “Are you _tired_ , Borra?” he asked in a patronising tone, choosing to ignore the fact that he too was in dire need of a rest.

Borra snorted at him. “I thought that you might need a bit of a nap, little raven. You seem to be stumbling over there.”

“Me, stumblin’? Not on your life. I can keep goin’ for another few hours yet.”

“I don’t know, you look as though you’re about to drop from exhaustion.”

“I’m right as rain. You, on the other hand… you’re draggin’ your wings a bit there, if I’m not mistaken. We can go on and come back for you later, you know. I’m sure the forest bein’s won’t nibble on you too much while we’re gone. What was that, Mistress?” Diaval turned toward Maleficent, who had muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘displaying peacocks’. _Peacocks!_ Surely she wouldn’t insult a beautiful raven with such a slur upon his ravenness? A _peacock_ , indeed.

Diaval was wrenched from his affronted thoughts as Maleficent suddenly stopped short, her eyes fixed on a point in the bushes ahead of them. He turned and followed her gaze, watching as the foliage rustled and moved from side to side. He was aware of Maleficent slowly raising a glowing hand, and the vegetation parted. He held his breath.

“What is _that_?” Borra asked, his eyes like saucers.

Silently, Diaval released the breath that he was holding and pretended that he had not been alarmed at all.

The creature before them appeared at first glance to be a rabbit, although it was unlike any rabbit found further south in the Moors that they knew. Rabbits, after all, did not possess impressive racks of antlers between their ears, nor did they tend to have wings upon their backs, or long fangs poking out of their mouths like little daggers. This creature appeared to be the unholy union of a triad of rabbit, deer and bird, with a bit of demon thrown in for good measure.

Diaval was not sure of how such a thing could come about, but contemplating it was enough to cause an instant headache. It was only when he caught the strange look that he was getting from Maleficent that he realised he was using his fingers to try and work out how a rabbit, a deer and a bird would fit together to make such a creature. He dropped his hands to his sides and flushed awkwardly.

Borra feebly waved his hands at the creature to shoo it out of the way. It looked up at his flailing limbs warily and took a step back, twitching its little nose.

Emboldened, Borra took the tiniest step forward. “Yah! Out of the way!” he growled, his usual gruff voice somewhat tighter and higher pitched than usual. The creature took another tentative step back.

Diaval crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow dubiously at the Dark Fey. Did he think that he was impressing Maleficent by chasing away the scary mutant bunny rabbit? It was pathetic, really – this powerful, burly man, solid muscle and self-assured attitude, and here he was, behaving as though this fuzzy little cottontail was a fearsome beast. Both he and Maleficent knew perfectly well that the bravado was all an act, and that Borra was really seconds away from soiling himself in fear.

The rabbit _snarled_.

Borra leapt back, shouting in alarm as the colour drained from his face. He bolted behind them, using Maleficent’s wings as a shield. Diaval thought that he heard a whimper.

From the corner of his eye, the raven man spied a fallen branch in the bushes beside him. He slowly leaned down, never once taking his eyes off the rabbit, and picked it up. As he rose again, he grasped it with both hands like a club and adopted a defensive stance, readying himself to swing should the need to defend himself or his Mistress arise.

And Borra, he supposed.

Baring its impressive pair of fangs, the rabbit creature hissed at them and swept a taloned paw along the ground.

Talons. Of course it had talons. This place was a waking nightmare.

Tensing, the creature bound forward toward them, spreading its wings at the last moment and taking to the air. It flapped above Maleficent’s horns and she ducked, raising her hands which already swirled with defensive magic.

The creature ignored her threat, however, and flew up into a nearby tree. It landed roughly on a branch and sat there, still hissing and growling at them.

“I think we should leave.” Diaval whispered. “Quickly.”

“Agreed.” Maleficent murmured, moving away from the rabbit creature in the tree without taking her eyes from it. Borra outpaced both of them in short order, blasting magic at the undergrowth to reveal any further surprises within as he stomped away rapidly, glancing back at the beast in the tree until it was well out of sight.

“Water!” Borra called. “There’s a river here!”

“Will we have to cross it?” Diaval asked, coming up beside him and peering down at the rushing water. He blinked in bewilderment. “Why is it _red_? It looks like blood!”

“Algae, I would think.” Maleficent replied as she stopped at the riverbank. “Some type of water plant which grows well in these conditions. Mind you, I can’t say that I’ve ever seen red algae before.”

“Doesn’t really mean much around here, Mistress. I’ll bet you’d never seen a flyin’ death rabbit before today either.” Diaval commented.

“Hm.” Maleficent hummed, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head in affirmation.

“I really don’t want to try wadin’ through that. It might just be algae, but it might also be some kind of flesh-eatin’ assassin mucilage, so I’d rather not take my chances.” Diaval narrowed his eyes at the red water below them as though expecting it to rise up and attack them at any moment.

“You’re making up words.” Borra scoffed under his breath.

“We can fly over.” Maleficent said, ignoring him. He was wrong, but it was not worth the effort of arguing with him over it. “The trees are far enough apart here that we can take wing for a short distance.” With that, she sent a twirl of magic in Diaval’s direction, changing him into a raven for long enough to traverse the crimson river.

With a caw, he flew to the other side and landed in a nearby tree to wait for the two Dark Fey, cocking his head expectantly at his Mistress on the opposite bank.

He did not like the way that she was staring at him.

He seldom saw true fear in her eyes, but even from the other side of the river he could see the way her pupils had suddenly dilated. She had stilled, barely breathing, and was poised to take flight, but something was holding her back.

Oooh no. He did not like this at all.

“Diaval,” Maleficent said in a low, tense voice. Her eyes flicked up to his left and above him before returning to his face. “You need to get out of that tree. Get out of that tree _right now_.”

He turned to look in spite of himself and immediately regretted it.

It could have been some sort of serpent, long and slender and wrapped around the branch above him as it was, but for the two strong forelegs which it was using to hold on as it craned its face down towards him.

Its _cat’s_ face, because nothing in this gods-forsaken place made any sense at all.

The corners of the creature’s mouth curled up into a ghoulish grimace and Diaval’s blood ran cold. Cats… cats should not smile. Oh no, they should not be smiling or attached to two-legged snake-lizard bodies or staring at him in that horribly focused, fixated way that meant that he was _prey_.

Diaval heard Maleficent take flight at the same moment that he registered the creature leaping toward him. He spread his wings but got no further; in the next second, he was clamped firmly between the creature’s jaws. White-hot pain enveloped his body as its knifelike teeth punctured his delicate raven skin.

Diaval was dimly aware that the creature was beginning to clamber higher in the tree, but his consciousness was rapidly fading; the jaws around him gripped so tightly that he was unable to draw breath. Black spots obscured his vision, multiplying rapidly and muting the colours of the foliage. The sounds around him receded to a vague hum, and then Diaval knew no more.

Fear had given way to fury. Maleficent soared across the river, straight at the creature who gripped her raven in its nasty feline mouth. A blast of magic was out of the question – the risk of hurting Diaval along with the beast was far too great – and so she did the only thing which occurred to her in the heat of the moment.

She punched it with all of her might in the back of the neck.

Maleficent was deceptively strong, and the blow was hard enough that it would have instantly slain an ordinary cat, but the creature was also far stronger than it appeared.

It rounded on her, releasing Diaval as it hissed angrily at Maleficent. Limp and lifeless, his little black form tumbled through the tree branches like a stone. Maleficent sent a quick burst of magic toward him to slow his descent, and he came to rest gently at the base of the tree like a child’s forgotten toy.

The beast leapt toward Maleficent, catching her off guard. It grasped at her throat with its robust forelegs, snapping and shrieking at her in a shower of foam and spittle. She dug her talons into the coriaceous skin about its neck, unable to even scratch the creature for the toughness of its hide. It was all that she could do to keep it from mauling her face.

She summoned her magic, heating up her hands until the flesh burned beneath them. The creature squealed and thrashed as the odour of burning meat grew stronger, but it did not release its grip upon her throat. Maleficent could feel the skin under her hands beginning to blister and slip, and a clear fluid tinged pink with blood trickled between her fingers.

Suddenly, Borra appeared in the air in front of her, the steady beat of his wings keeping him aloft in the nominal space between the trees. He reached around the creature’s face and drove the talons on each thumb deep into its eyeballs, gouging them clean out. The beast screamed a high-pitched screech of pure agony as blood poured from its empty eye sockets, and it finally freed Maleficent from its grasp.

Borra caught the creature by the end of its serpentine tail and swung it away from her, whirling in the air as he spun it around. Blood splattered onto the nearby timber as it flew from the beast’s ruined eyes. 

As Borra turned a second time, he released the tail and the beast went flying headfirst into the trees. They heard a loud _thunk_ and the sickening sound of splintering bone as it collided with a massive conifer, and the forest fell silent once more.

Maleficent shot Borra a grateful look.

“I don’t like this place.” he said by way of reply.

They descended to the base of the tree where Diaval still lay unconscious, though Maleficent was deeply relieved to find him breathing without great effort. She sent her magic into him, transforming him back into his man shape so that she might see his injuries more easily. She opened the front of his jacket and winced.

Large puncture wounds littered Diaval’s torso, some slowly oozing blood and others outright bleeding. One gash on his upper abdomen drew her attention particularly; unlike the others, this injury was very deep, and blood gushed freely from it, coating his stomach and soaking into his clothing.

Maleficent drew forth her healing magic and placed her hands over the wound, unconcerned by the blood which seeped between her fingers and beneath her talons. She frowned in concentration as she mended the gash from within; knitting damaged organs and punctured vessels back together, her dear friend glowing gold from head to toe as the magic found and repaired each and every injury.

Minutes passed, and finally Maleficent relaxed, letting out a deep sigh. She waved her hand over Diaval once more, cleaning him of the soaking mess of blood, and leaned forward to rest her head on his scarred chest. The steady thumping of his heart reassured her; it was not the first time that she had needed to heal him of grievous injuries and she doubted that it would be the last, but he had survived once again, and for that she was deeply grateful. A life without Diaval was unthinkable.

“I didn’t know that you could do that.” Borra rumbled softly beside her. “Heal, I mean. Your powers are truly incredible.”

Maleficent looked up at him wearily. “I have many abilities, but it serves no purpose to boast of them.”

“Mistress?” came a croak from beneath her.

“Diaval.” Maleficent could not help the tiny smile of relief at the sound of his voice. Healed, and now conscious. He would live another day.

“’Scuse my Nyrsta Vígan, but what the bloody hell was that thing?” the raven said weakly. He peered cautiously into the tree above them as though expecting the creature to leap down and finish him off.

“A Tatzelwurm, I think.” His Mistress smirked. “You would think that I might have gotten a good look as it was trying to rip my face off, but unfortunately, I was far too preoccupied with trying to keep it from ripping my face off.”

Diaval chuckled, then glanced up at a confused Borra. “It’s a joke. Maleficent humour. You’ll learn.” he deadpanned. Borra frowned at him.

“I’ll have plenty to tell those foolish youngsters once we return home.” he said gruffly. “If only we could show them; they would never be tempted to come here again.”

“You could bring your dead Tatzelwurm.” Maleficent commented, gesturing somewhere over to her left. “It landed over that way in the bushes.”

Borra snorted. “I’ll pass. It probably wouldn’t make it back to the Moors anyway; the raven here would likely want it for dinner.”

“There’s a thought,” Diaval said, slowly hauling himself up to sit, “What do you suppose murderous cat-serpents taste like?”

“No, Diaval.”

“Not even a little nibble?”

“ _No_.”

They were moving far more slowly now. The land had gradually begun to slope upward into gently rolling hills, and though Diaval’s wounds had been healed, he had lost a fair amount of blood. He was likely capable of moving faster, but Maleficent would not allow it. She hovered beside him, watching him hawkishly for any sign of fatigue or giddiness, but the intractable creature trudged ever onwards, occasionally turning to flash her an endearing crooked smile of reassurance.

Slightly ahead of Maleficent and Diaval, Borra bashed his way through the vegetation, snarling at ferns and growling at the vines which still entangled him. His shoulders were rigid, and Maleficent was acutely aware of the way in which the muscles in his arms were tense and bulging.

Without warning, the Desert Fey turned around. “We haven’t found a thing. There’s nothing here. We should get out of this miserable place before something else tries to kill us.” he snarled.

“One more hour.” Maleficent reasoned. “For all the time we have been walking, we have not actually gone all that far in distance. Ten miles, if that.”

“Another hour of nothing.”

“You never do know. Diaval, where are you going?”

The raven man had stumbled past Borra and through a thick grove of trees. “Come and look at this!” he called. Sweeping past the scowling Desert Fey, Maleficent rounded the trees to join Diaval.

He had found a clearing – an unusual sight in these Moors. For the first time since they had entered the forest, Maleficent could see the clear blue of the sky above, and the ground she stood upon was devoid of the ferns and shrubs which elsewhere dominated the landscape.

“Somethin’ happened here.” Diaval said. He was examining the trunk of a stately oak, running his fingers over in indentation in the bark. “A battle, maybe. This looks as though it was cut with a sword, but not deliberately like the trail markers. There are lots of slash marks, random and different heights.” He turned, his eyes roving over the other trees surrounding the clearing. “A lot of the trees have them. Scorch marks too.”

Maleficent stroked the damaged oak. If a battle had caused the scars, it had been long ago. The tree had healed itself as best it could, and it was clear that they were old injuries.

Diaval had dropped to his hands and knees and was ferreting about in the foliage at the bases of the trees.

“What is the raven doing?” Borra asked Maleficent, striding up beside her. She narrowed her eyes at him, but before she could respond, Diaval piped up.

“Lookin’ for evidence! Some sign that Fritjof was here. Armour, footprints, a dead body, whatever. Somethin’ that ties him to this battle and maybe tells us who he was fightin’, so we can solve this crest mystery.” He disappeared under some dense shrubs, which rustled as he hunted about beneath.

It bothered Maleficent that Diaval seemed unfazed at Borra never using his name. He did not deserve to be dehumanised like that, even if he wasn’t technically human.

“Borra,” she said softly, trying to keep her voice low enough that Diaval could not hear her from beneath the vegetation, “His name is Diaval. Diaval. It’s not difficult to pronounce, nor is it difficult to remember.”

The Desert Fey had the decency to look ashamed. “My apologies.”

“It is he who deserves your apology, not I. He will never confront you, nor will he complain, but he is my closest friend and I will not have him ill-treated. He is a raven, but he is not _just_ a raven, not anymore. I am not even certain that a raven is his true form now; when he was cut off from my magic before and during Ingrith’s war, he reverted to his human form, not his raven one. That was not my doing, but his – he loves deeply, and his love for others has made him into what he now is. Regardless, he deserves respect in whatever shape he wears. He is more than just a raven wearing the form of a man. More than he is ever given credit for.”

Her eyes were startling, luminous in vehemence, and Borra’s gaze held hers for a fraction of a second longer than was comfortable before looking away. “I see.” he muttered.

Maleficent frowned. Something had passed between them, but what resulted in apparent understanding for Borra had only caused her greater confusion. Did he think that Diaval was more than a friend to her? Surely he knew her well enough to know that she would speak out in defence of any of her friends?

Her thoughts scattered at Diaval’s triumphant shout. 

“Look what I’ve found!” He backed out of the bushes clumsily, his jacket covered in leaves and twigs and smeared with dirt. In his hand, he gripped a heavily rusted piece of metal.

“Is that a sword?” asked Borra.

“Sure is. Don’t touch it, though – I’m not certain, but it looks like iron to me. Have a look, though – see that there on the pommel?”

The sword was coated in a thick layer of dirty rust, dulling the blade and crumbling the delicate filigree detailing of the cross-guard. The filigree wound about upon itself like vines of ivy, forming a curved guard designed to protect the hand of the one who wielded it.

The handle of the sword was equally detailed, encrusted with hundreds of tiny ruby and diamond chips, which sparkled in the muted light of the clearing despite the layers of dirt embedded between the stones. It was clear that the weapon had been made for someone of great importance.

The pommel of the sword, however, was the true prize. Diaval wiped his hand over it, scrubbing away years of accumulated grime, and held it up proudly so that Maleficent and Borra might see it.

A casing of iron held a perfectly circular piece of agate, ground flat on each side and polished so that the grain of the stone shone. Into the stone itself, the swordsmith had etched a complicated shape on both sides and painstakingly filled the carvings with molten iron, so that they were emphasised against the pinks and browns of the agate surrounding them.

“Fritjof’s crest.” Maleficent breathed. “This must have been his sword.”

“So if this is his sword, where is he then?” asked Borra, looking around the clearing as though expecting the Nyrsta Vígan prince to leap out from behind a tree in the world’s worst game of hide-and-seek.

“I don’t think he’s here.” Diaval replied. “There’s no body, in any case, so if he died here then somethin’ took him away. Or ate him, maybe. I think the real question is, what was he fightin’? And where is it now? And is this going to lead us to Wilfred, after all that?”

“What’s that?” Borra said suddenly, craning his neck to see around a large tree. “It looks like something buried in the hillside as the land rises over there.”

Diaval frowned and leaned over to see what it was that Borra had spied. “It looks like a door.”

Maleficent raised an eyebrow. “Doors lead into things, you know.” She strode purposefully out of the clearing toward the rising land. Before she had covered twenty paces, it became clear that the object that Borra had spotted was, indeed, a dilapidated wooden door. A natural cave had formed in the side of a low hill, and the door had been installed within the mouth. Earth had been piled up around it to create a front wall, and creepers now grew in abundance all over it.

Diaval followed Maleficent but a few paces behind, carrying Fritjof’s rusty sword, and Borra brought up at the rear. On reaching the door, Maleficent paused for a moment. She wondered if she should knock. The place looked deserted, but one never did know about these things. She certainly would not be thrilled if a stranger came barging into her nest unannounced, after all.

She knocked.

Nothing happened.

Maleficent shrugged and reached for the handle. She was surprised to find that it appeared to have been made from bronze; the brownish hue of the metal was dull and dirty, but it remained cool in her hand as she grasped it.

A fae abode, then? It hardly seemed that a human would venture this far into the Moors and stay.

She cautiously pushed the door open, forcing it a little when it stuck. “Hello?” she called into the musty darkness. There was no response.

Maleficent warily stepped inside, noting both a drop in the temperature and the room itself – the stone floor sat some two feet down from the level of the ground outside, accessed by well-worn steps from the door.

As Diaval and Borra crowded into the room behind her, Diaval still doggedly dragging the sword, Maleficent conjured a glowing ball of magic in her palm which illuminated the space.

It was a nondescript entry chamber, small and thick with dust, in what had originally been the mouth of the cave. The presence of truncated stalactites above them indicated that the chamber was indeed a proper cave, fashioned into a dwelling by persons unknown. The inhabitant had carved the chamber further to give it a more symmetrical shape, as evidenced by the tool-marks which adorned the walls. Cobwebs long abandoned by the spiders which made them hung limply from the roughly hewn ceiling. A long table stretched across the wall to their right. A bowl sat atop it with what may once have been fruit within, now rotted down to a dried out black mess.

At the end of the room, directly opposite them, a single hallway disappeared into the darkness of the cave interior.

Maleficent started as Diaval’s rasp cut through the stillness.

“There are torches here, Mistress. On the walls. If you could light them…” he trailed off, peering nervously around the filthy cave.

Maleficent nodded. “Of course.” She sent a trail of magic around the room and through the gloomy hallway, lighting each of the wall sconces along the way. Squaring her shoulders and telling herself that she was _not_ frightened, that she had been in far more intimidating circumstances than walking into an abandoned cave shack in the middle of a monster-infested forest, and damnation, it would be ever so much easier if her traitorous hands would stop trembling, Maleficent set off down the hallway.

Diaval, right behind her as always, quietly slipped his hand into hers. He knew better than to comment on the shaking and clamminess, though – if anything, his hands were even worse.

“Ah, we do get ourselves into some interestin’ situations, don’t we Mistress?” he murmured. “We should take a holiday when this is all over. Treat ourselves. Go somewhere tropical, with lots of pineapples. Have you ever tried a pineapple, Mistress? I haven’t, but I heard from some of the migratory birds that they’re tangy and delicious, and they could eat them all day long. I’d like to try a pineapple. Eatin’ a pineapple and lyin’ in the sun somewhere, nice beach with soft sand to stick our toes in, what do you think?”

“Why are you babbling about pineapples and sand?”

She knew, of course. He was petrified, and talking incessantly seemed to help to calm him when he felt that way, but he did tend to choose some quite bizarre topics of conversation.

Though the light chased away the imagined demons of the darkness, it did little to assuage their apprehension. The hallway felt as though it was closing in on them in spite of the flickering flames on each wall, and three sighs of relief greeted the room at the other end.

Similar in size and shape to the entry chamber, this room was clearly little more than a thoroughfare and storage area. Four wooden doors were spaced about the walls at regular intervals, and the wall space which was not taken up by doors was lined with cluttered shelving. The shelves were piled high with crumbling books and strange metal instruments. Dusty jars filled with murky liquids contained unidentifiable pickled creatures, both whole and in dismembered parts. Sightless eyes bored into them from almost every direction.

Maleficent’s eyebrows had nearly merged with the leather wrap around her head. “We’ve discovered the lair of a lunatic.” she muttered under her breath.

Borra grasped the handle of the door to the far left. “Shall we have a look behind door number one? It can’t be any creepier than-” he stopped as the door swung open. “No, I was wrong. It’s creepier.”

It was a small room, almost bare but for a hard wooden cot by the far wall and two small buckets – one half-filled with filthy water, and the other empty, but stinking of old excrement. Lines upon lines of vertical scratches, every six crossed with a single horizontal one, adorned the walls; years and years of someone painstakingly recording the days.

“A cell.” Diaval murmured. “Someone was imprisoned here. For _years_.”

“But where are they now?” Maleficent queried. She quickly strode over to the second door, swinging it open without concern for what may be hiding within.

Borra came up behind her and looked over the shoulder. “This is a bit more… normal.” he said. The room was a living area of sorts; the far end contained a small fireplace, with a chimney which clearly vented up and out of the cave to the Moors above. An armchair rested by the fire, and several bookshelves contained tomes with titles in a mysterious language.

Diaval sniffed suspiciously and crept into the room. “That fire has been lit recently. I can smell it. And,” he continued, reaching the armchair, “There’s no dust on this chair. Someone has been sittin’ in it. This place isn’t as abandoned as it looks.”

“I wonder what that pompous queen will say if it turns out that her lost little brother has been living these past decades in the Moors after all?” Borra smirked.

“I doubt that this place is Fritjof’s. These books are not in Nyrsta Vígan – I don’t know _what_ language this is. Some sort of Elvish, by the look of it.” replied Maleficent.

Borra plucked a book from one of the shelves and opened it, arranging his face into a studious expression and stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm.”

“You can read it?” Maleficent asked in astonishment.

The Desert Fey looked up at her with a cheeky grin. “No. Not a word.” He snapped the book shut and returned it to the shelf. Maleficent raised an eyebrow.

Diaval had already made his way back through the door. With an ominous creak, he turned the handle of the third door and peeked inside.

And almost immediately shut the door again.

“What is it, Diaval?”

“Uh… there’s a table…”

“And?”

“And a lot of metal things that look like they’re for hurtin’…”

“Anything else?”

“It stinks of old blood… and I think there’s a brain and some legs or somethin’ in a big jar in one corner.” He stepped aside to allow Maleficent access to the door. “Have a look for yourself.”

She carefully opened the door, mindful of both the contents thereof and the disturbed pallor of Diaval’s face from having seen it.

It was as he had described. A long wooden table in the centre of the room was the predominant feature, but shelving held torturous-looking metal instruments which appeared to be designed for cutting, sawing and tearing. The surface of the table was stained with ominous dark brown splatters which coalesced into a single large discolouration in the centre, and the staining followed through onto the stone floor beneath. The air itself was thick with the stench of dried blood.

Maleficent’s eyes swept along the shelving to the far right corner of the room, coming to rest on a glass vessel which was large enough to reach her hips were she to stand beside it. Though the contents of the vessel were submerged in a murky liquid, and dust had settled upon the outside of the glass, she could still make out a lump of brain matter resting on the bottom of it and four amputated limbs floating above.

She closed her eyes and turned away, meeting Diaval’s sympathetic gaze as she opened them again.

“Do you think that’s the missing prince over there in the jar?” Borra queried in a tone more befitting the question of what one would like for breakfast. “Or bits of him, anyway? Do you think that blonde bitch will want him back like that?”

Maleficent shut the door firmly and glared at him.

“Last door?” Diaval asked meekly, drawing her attention away from the smirking Desert Fey. “We either find who lives here or we don’t, eh?”

He squared his shoulders and made his way to the final door without hesitation. He was a brave soul, Maleficent thought. Ravens were not really built for bravery so much as they were for cleverness, but Diaval was something of an exception.

Maleficent stepped toward Diaval as he opened the final door and looked within. He paused for a moment, his face a picture of disbelief.

“What is it? Diaval?”

“You!” he spluttered, ignoring Maleficent entirely. “What in the gods are _you_ doing here?” He pushed the door open fully so that Maleficent and Borra might see into the room.

It was a bedchamber – a surprisingly lavish one, considering the rest of the dwelling. Instead of a bed, however, a sumptuous nest had been constructed in one corner of the room. It overflowed with large cushions and soft blankets, and the relative cleanliness of it suggested recent use.

It was not the nest which had captured Diaval’s attention, however. He was looking at the opposite side of the room. Maleficent followed his gaze and her mouth fell open in surprise.

Over in the corner of the room, cowering in terror at having been discovered, his strange yellow eyes wide with shock and disbelief, was none other than Lickspittle.


	9. Chapter 9

The day was warm, but Aurora shivered. She pulled her cloak around her as she stood over the table littered with maps of the Moors and surrounding kingdoms, ignoring the sharp ache in her breasts and the matching throbbing in her head, and sipped the foul herbal tea which Knotgrass and Thistlewit had carefully prepared for her.

Her baby was missing, her kingdom may well find itself at war, and she did _not_ have time to be sick right now.

Milk clogs, her aunts had told her. It had been almost two days since she had last fed Wilfred, and already she was aching and feverish. Though she had tried to squeeze the excess milk from her breasts, the pain was excruciating, and it was all that she could do to keep from screaming. She was certain that giving birth had been less painful.

The last time she had attempted it, there had been blood and pus as well.

She needed her baby. She needed her godmother. She needed this awful infection to go away so that she could prepare the Tree Guardian army for a possible battle.

She needed to talk to Phillip again, and make plans for every eventuality, no matter how unlikely. Ground assaults, air assaults, backup from the Moors to Ulstead and vice versa, additional security for both the castle at Ulstead and the Moorland castle… the list was exhausting, and expediency was vital. Percival could have taken care of most of the planning and moving around of troops and appliances, but it took her mind off the fact that she could do little else in the rescue of her son. Defending him once he was safely back in her arms, though – that she could do. She could make a difference there.

Unless, of course, she became so ill that she was unable to do anything more than shiver violently in her bed.

The tea was supposed to help with the fever and the pain, but that was contingent on Aurora managing to keep it down in the first place. She wondered if adding honey to the next cup would negate the medicinal effects, and resolved to ask her aunts about it as soon as they returned from whatever peculiar fairy task they had disappeared to do. 

Still, knowing that it would help, she forced the bitter brew down her throat and tried not to think about the taste. God only knew what her poor baby was being forced to eat, after all, and that was if he was being fed at all.

Aurora made herself take several steadying breaths. It would not do to fall apart. Wilfred needed her to be strong, and strong she would be.

“Aurora? Aurora, are you there?”

She smiled and turned toward the door. “I’m in here, Phillip.”

His footsteps thudded reassuringly on the floorboards toward her, his kind blue eyes roving around the room until they landed upon her. His smile faded.

“Aurora, you look awful! Are you ill?”

She nodded slightly. “I haven’t fed Wilfred in days, and now I have an infection. I feel terrible, but Phillip, that doesn’t matter right now. We need to make some plans for anything that may happen when Godmother and Diaval come back with our baby.”

“Aurora…”

“Don’t baby me, Phillip.”

“I’m not babying you, but you – have you seen yourself? You’re as white as a sheet.”

Aurora ignored him and leaned over the maps on the table.

“As far as I see it, we can safely assume that a ground assault from the north of the Moors is unlikely, given the terrain. An aerial attack is still a possibility, and we will need scouts to the north with their eyes on the sky, but we can direct the Tree Guardians to the border with Ulstead for the moment.” She paused, shivering involuntarily and hoping that Phillip had not noticed.

“Aurora, you’re sick. You need to be in bed.”

“I’ll go in a minute. Come over here and tell me where your forces are deployed on the Moors border so that I can have the Ents go where they are most needed.”

“Aurora…”

“I’m _fine_.”

“You’re not fine, you’re shaking like a leaf and there’s a stain on the front of your dress – is that blood? Aurora, are you bleeding?” Phillip grabbed her arms and held her in front of him, staring at the pinkish mark on the bosom of her dress.

“It’s just an infection, Phillip. It’s been bleeding a little, and there’s a bit of pus. It’s not very nice, granted, but it’s not a reason to sh-shirk my duties-”

“It absolutely is. Go to bed. No, wait, I am taking you to bed.” Phillip found a blank piece of parchment on the chaotic table and scribbled out a short note with a stray piece of charcoal.

“What’s that?” Aurora asked dully.

“A note for one of our doctors to come from Ulstead to examine you. I know that your aunts will have been taking care of you, but I’d feel better if we explored all avenues in treating you.” Taking her elbow, Phillip propelled Aurora out of the meeting room and up the spiral stairs to her bedchamber.

“Come on, out of that dress.” he said, unlacing the back for her.

“Not now, Phillip, I really don’t feel like it.” Aurora whined feebly.

“Har-de-har. As though I would – you’re hardly in a fit state, my sunrise. Oh,” he frowned, gauging her pained expression, “ _Oh_. You really _are_ sick. You actually thought I was trying to… oh dear, no, Aurora, I just want to get you into bed. I mean, no, not like that, I just want you to lie down and rest and get better.” Phillip fumbled. He peeled off Aurora’s dress until she stood before him limply in her corset and stained chemise, her face like a ghost but for the deep unnatural flush of her cheeks, her eyes glassy with fever.

“I’m cold.” she whimpered. Her skin was covered in gooseflesh and her shivering had increased tenfold with the lack of clothing.

“I know.” he whispered sympathetically, unlacing her corset and wrapping her in a blanket. “Lie down, my love.”

Phillip laid Aurora down on her woven-vine bed and tucked the blankets around her tightly.

“The Moors…” she croaked.

“The Moors will be fine. I can look after things here, and Father will take care of Ulstead as always. You need to focus on recovering, Aurora. What will Wilfred think if he comes home to you like this?” Phillip replied tremulously. He sent a silent prayer heavenward that Maleficent and Diaval would find their little boy safe and well and bring him home to them soon.

A minute flutter of wings outside of the bedchamber door caught his attention, and he poked his head out.

“Thistlewit! I’m glad to see you.”

“Is Aurora in bed? Oh dear, she’s very sick…” the pixie whimpered, wringing her tiny hands.

“I want to stay with her, but I need to get this note to Ulstead. Would you be able to take it for me?” Phillip asked her. Thistlewit nodded enthusiastically, her tight blonde curls bobbing madly about her head. “Take it to my father, please, and quickly.”

Clutching Phillip’s note as though it was a precious jewel, Thistlewit gave a little squeak and spun downward, through the antechamber at the bottom of the stairs and out of an open window toward Ulstead.

“Please be quick.” Phillip whispered after her. He turned back toward his stricken wife, flushed and sweating in her blankets, and returned to her side.

* * *

Lickspittle jumped a mile, sending a quill flying and toppling a bottle of ink all over the stone floor. In his other hand was a leather-bound journal, which he quickly shoved in his pocket. 

Diaval crossed the bedchamber and raised Fritjof’s rusty sword with both hands, pointing it at the cowering pixie’s throat. “What are you doin’ here, Lickspittle? You vanished from the Moors all those months ago, nobody had a clue where you’d gone, and now, when Prince Wilfred has been kidnapped you’re _here_ , the very place the few clues we had led us. It’s all a bit suspicious, if you ask me.”

The pixie whimpered, crawling backwards into the wall. “I didn’t kidnap a prince! Oh no, not me. So, their Highnesses had a little boy, did they? Lovely, lovely. No, not me, I’ve been here for months. Months!”

“You must admit, Lickspittle, that it is rather an _interesting_ coincidence that you happened to be here.” Maleficent said as she strode imposingly into the small room. “Put the sword down, Diaval, I doubt that intimidating him is entirely necessary.”

“I-I am not _intimidated_! I am Lickspittle the N-Nobleman, and I am n-not afraid!”

“Sure you’re not.” Diaval smirked, but he lowered the sword nonetheless.

“So,” Maleficent purred dangerously, “How _did_ you come to be in this very cave, in this very part of the Moors, just as we happened to show up in search of someone else?”

“Well, it’s a funny story, really…” the pixie began, wringing his knobbly fingers together anxiously, “Uh, well, not _funny_ exactly… more horrible and soul-destroying, but yes, a funny story… I used to live here, you see. Years ago. Before I was, uh, _employed_ by Queen Ingrith.”

Maleficent blinked slowly. “What?”

“This was my home. I’d forgotten all about it – a bit of a side-effect, I think, of what she did to me at first, cutting off my wings and the chains and whips and bloodletting and all that – I think I’d forced myself to forget everything but what she wanted me to remember, haha. But when your lovely Queen Aurora saw the scars on my back and told me that Queen Ingrith had stolen my wings, it started to come back, bit by bit. The torture first, unfortunately.” Lickspittle chuckled somewhat manically.

“Is that why you up and vanished a few months back?” Diaval asked.

“Yes, yes. I remembered that I used to live here, and nobody seemed to want me around the Moors or Ulstead after… well, everything that happened. Don’t blame them, really, with all that Ingrith had me do.” He grinned nervously at them, his face falling as he was met with stony expressions. “Ah, well, anyway, I made my way back, and I’ve been here ever since. I’m glad it was you, actually. I was a bit worried for a moment there, I thought he’d come back and I was done for…” Lickspittle trailed off, eyeing them nervously as he realised what he had said.

“You thought it was _who_?” Maleficent asked in a dangerously quiet tone.

“N-nobody! Nobody at all! Just me here, always has been!” replied Lickspittle. The nervous flickering of his eyes belied the forced grin on his face.

With a low growl, Borra stepped into the room. Three long strides later and he had Lickspittle around the throat, calloused fingers and long talons digging threateningly into the pixie’s skin as he lifted him clear off the ground. Borra leaned close into Lickspittle’s face and growled again. “Liar.”

Lickspittle yelped, his dangling legs thrashing wildly as he gripped Borra’s wrist for purchase.

“Who did you think had returned, pixie?” Borra snarled.

Lickspittle shrieked, and Borra dug his talons in further.

“Who built this place?”

“Ugh! Well, technically I did, actually! I carved most of it out...” the pixie replied quickly. He groped at Borra’s wrist madly, though his efforts were entirely in vain.

“What’s this?” Borra snarled, snatching the journal from Lickspittle’s pocket.

“N-nothing! Nothing of any importance!”

“Uh huh.” Borra replied skeptically. He flicked the journal open to a random page, holding it in one hand as he continued to choke Lickspittle with the other. “Nice drawings, pixie. What a shame I can’t read a word of it.”

Maleficent’s eyes followed Diaval as he moved behind Borra to look at the journal. Unlike the Desert Fey, the raven man was fluently literate – indeed, when they had left the Moors, he had been midway through a lengthy and rather graphic romantic adventure novel. (“It’s educational!” he had insisted, “Did you even know that this was possible?” He had then pointed to a passage which had her flushing scarlet before she had read even half of it. Indeed, she had _not_ known that such a thing was possible.)

Maleficent watched Diaval’s eyes rove across the page. His expressions changed from confused to nauseated, and finally settled on horrified.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” he whispered in revulsion.

“What is it?” Maleficent asked.

“He’s been experimentin’… and writin’ down everythin’ that he does. It’s horrible, Mistress. He’s choppin’ up creatures and sewin’ them back together all wrong. Bits of one creature sewn to bits of another.” Diaval swiped the book from Borra’s hand and rifled through it. “Gods above, this goes back _years_. These early entries are dated almost thirty years ago!”

“It hasn’t been thirty years! I spent twenty five of them in the dungeon in Ulstead!”

“But you were doin’ this before, and now that you’re free you’re back at it? Makin’ all sorts of plans, it looks like. Is that bits of Prince Fritjof in that jar in the other room, then? Did you chop him up too and start Ingrith goin’ mad? Is it all your fault?” Diaval handed the journal to Maleficent. “Have a look for yourself, it’s disgustin’ what he’s done.”

“Prince Fritjof? Oh no, no, that’s not him in the jar, no, no.” Lickspittle babbled in terror.

“Then who is it?” Borra growled, leaning in close to the pixie’s face.

“Wait, _was_ Fritjof here?” Diaval interrupted. “Put him down, Borra, he can’t answer questions if you’re stranglin’ him.”

Borra sneered at Diaval, but obliged and released Lickspittle, who fell to the floor with a painful thump.

Maleficent spread her wings just enough to appear tremendously imposing and stood over the gasping pixie. “Was Fritjof here?” she repeated. “Does he still live? I have no real concern for his welfare, mind you, but he may know the whereabouts of our Prince Wilfred, whose welfare I am exceedingly concerned with.” Her eyes flashed a threatening green, and Lickspittle trembled.

“My lady, of course… he was here, for a time. Fritjof was here. He left years ago, many years ago, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“You knew him?”

“We were servants of the same master.”

“And who was that master?”

Lickspittle looked at each of them in turn, as though contemplating how best to escape without another word. Finally, he sighed in resignation.

“We – Fritjof and I – were the servants of the Erlkönig. Alberich, his name was, although neither of us were permitted to use it. Not that it mattered anyway, he didn’t use our names either, just Pixie and Boy usually, haha.” Lickspittle chuckled humourlessly. “The Master took me from my family when I was just a lad, and bound my magic so that I could still use it, but not to escape. He had me carve out this cave, but he let me do things… things that interested me. He liked that. He liked to see what I did.”

Diaval shuddered. “And Prince Fritjof?”

“Ah, yes, the prince. He came later. It would have been about twenty five or so years ago. It was raining, I remember that. Not much rain comes through the canopy, but this day was pouring, bucketing down, so it was coming through the leaves…”

“Get on with it.” Borra snarled.

“Yes, yes, of course. The Master was in the clearing in the rain. Some sort of ritual, I think. I wasn’t allowed to watch, you see, but I could hear. There was a battle, lots of noise, lots of shouting. I shouldn’t have been there, but I snuck over to see, and there was this boy in armour with a sword, twirling it around and trying to kill the Master. It was a bit silly of him, really. He lost, obviously, and the Master imprisoned him for a few years to break him. Then he became a servant, like me. Angry boy, always looking for a fight, though he and I reached an understanding. He was a great help in my experiments. But he’s been gone for years.”

“Gone where?”

“No idea! I woke one morning and he was gone. No note, nothing at all. I wasn’t upset, though, oh no, he was a dislikable chap. Not unlike his sister, Queen Ingrith, but more volatile. No, he was gone and I left that very day, went north east to the border of Lur Maiteak and was picked up by Ingrith’s guards as she made her way through to Ulstead to marry King John. Mind you, I forgot about that for years, she was rather a tyrant. Rather fond of torture, haha.” Lickspittle wiped a hand across his eyes.

“You said, pixie, that you were a servant. You were here for years by your own admission – how were you suddenly allowed to leave like that?” Borra asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Oh, well, the Erlkönig was gone by then.” Lickspittle replied. “I was free to do as I pleased, for once. Not that it lasted all that long.”

“Where is this Erlkönig now? How is it that he just left you behind? I feel as though you are withholding something.” asked Maleficent. Green magic flashed around the centres of her irises, but for once, it seemed to do little to intimidate the pixie before her.

“Well… I did say that Fritjof was an angry boy,” replied Lickspittle, grinning at her savagely, “Very angry. Vicious, too. The Erlkönig never _really_ left, you see, not in the way that you’re thinking.” The pixie chuckled. “Most of him is in that jar.”

It was difficult to gauge the time of day from beneath the dense tree canopy, but it was genuinely impossible from inside a pixie-made cave, deep within the earth. It may have been minutes or hours that they had spent there; the lack of natural light rendered day and night one and the same.

Lickspittle, feeling braver in light of not having been brutally slaughtered, offered to show them the room which he called his workshop – the frightening room with the bloodstains and the body parts. His beady eyes gleamed as Borra took him up on the offer, though he was the only one. Maleficent and Diaval remained in the bedchamber, surreptitiously perusing the pixie’s disturbing collection of journals. The one which Borra had confiscated was barely the tip of the iceberg.

Maleficent opened an inauspicious-looking black leather-bound volume, small enough to fit neatly into her open hand, and flicked through a few pages. “Oh my.”

“What? What sort of horrors are in that one? Can’t be worse than the one with the eagle wings sewn onto the legless Amarok.” Diaval muttered bitterly.

“Oh, it’s worse.” She held out the open journal and watched his eyes widen and his mouth gape. He looked back up at her, suddenly a delicate shade of green.

“This… there’s no way that he could have done this. It’s monstrous. How would he have managed it? No, this has to be theoretical, Mistress. Has to be.” Diaval swallowed audibly and shook his head.

The bedchamber door creaked, and Maleficent snatched the journal away from the stunned raven man. Thinking quickly, she shoved it haphazardly down the front of her dress between her breasts and adopted her most convincingly innocent expression.

Diaval’s eyebrows shot upward, but he said nothing, and arranged his face equally innocuously. His eyes flicked to her bosom and back to her face though, his ears reddening as he realised the double entendre in what he had done.

“I have come to the conclusion,” Borra announced as he sauntered through the door, “That Lickspittle here is a complete and utter crackpot and shouldn’t be allowed in the company of those of sound mind.” He seized the pixie by the shoulder and squeezed. Lickspittle chuckled nervously, trying to escape from the Desert Fey, but Borra had a vicelike grip and only pressed harder.

“I concur.” Maleficent replied, glaring at Lickspittle. “What do you intend to do once we leave you?”

“Uh, um, I was thinking that perhaps I might have a nice cup of tea and go to bed, actually…” he replied nervously.

“She means in general, you bloody skamelar. We’re goin’ to fly up and out of here, and what are you plannin’ to do once we’re gone? Sewin’ together some more creatures that were never meant to be within eyeshot of each other? Because if that’s what you’re plannin’ to do…” Diaval trailed off, a threat unspoken but heavily implied.

“Uh… no, no, of course not, my good Lord Diaval. I don’t know where you get these ideas from, no, no, no…”

“See, I think,” Borra growled menacingly, “You’ll do just that. No sooner will we find our way out of this cursed place than you will start your little ‘experiments’ again. I don’t think that you can be trusted, am I right?”

“I am Lickspittle the Nobleman! I am eminently trustworthy!”

Borra snorted. “Oh look, the raven just rolled his eyes back far enough to see his own brain.” he said sarcastically.

Maleficent stopped herself from pulling him up on calling Diaval ‘the raven’ again – now was not the time.

Besides which, Borra was quite accurate in the exaggerated nature of Diaval’s eyeroll.

“I can assure you that I will give you my word-”

“Lickspittle.” Maleficent’s tone invited no argument, “You may remain here tonight, as it is likely dangerous to venture out here in darkness. Tomorrow, however, you will start back southward to the Moors, where you can be adequately supervised. When we return ourselves, I will search for you, and if I do not find you,” she smiled malevolently, “Then I will come _looking_.”

The pixie nodded emphatically. His head was almost a blur. “Yes, absolutely my lady, I will do that. I will, uh, I will pack my belongings right now, right right now, and leave at dawn. Oh yes. Back to the Moors. I wonder if anyone has missed me?”

“I doubt it.” Borra sneered. He gave Lickspittle a little shove, which sent the pixie sprawling onto the stone floor. Whimpering, he crawled over to the nest and started folding one of the musty blankets into a makeshift knapsack.

“Come.” Maleficent instructed. “Leave that rusty old sword here, Diaval, we have no use for it.”

The sword hit the stone with a careless clang. As rusty as it was, the blade sheared away from the tang as it landed, splitting the weapon in two.

“Not now, anyway.” the raven man muttered. He followed Maleficent and Borra through the shabby door into the next room, shutting it firmly behind him with Lickspittle still inside. If they saw the pixie again, it would be far too soon.

Down the dismal hallway, into the entry chamber and out into the forest once more, the two Fey and the raven found that twilight had fallen over the landscape, casting an insidious gloom over them as the shadows grew ever longer. It was deathly quiet; even the low hum of magic which had pervaded the forest earlier had fallen silent. The only perceptible sound was that of their own anxious breathing.

“Quickly, to the clearing.” Maleficent whispered urgently.

An eerie howl shattered the stillness of advancing dusk; loud and long and far too close.

“Mistress…?”

“Faster, Diaval, faster!” Maleficent urged, pulling on his elbow to hurry him along. 

Something was advancing upon them, crashing through the thick undergrowth with great speed. As they rounded the trees and entered the clearing, an almighty howl reverberated around them, seemingly from every direction all at once.

A massive, looming shape appeared from the undergrowth, snarling and snapping enormous, menacing jaws. Silver bridle fur on its body hung in shaggy tendrils from beneath its belly, coming to a mane-like concentration around the muscular shoulders and head. 

It was a wolf – but a wolf that was easily as large as a lion, with razor sharp teeth even larger than those of the great cat. Unblinking feral eyes fixed upon them, the pupils blown so wide that the unnerving pale grey of the irises was almost overwhelmed. 

The wolf advanced upon them fearlessly, a creature accustomed to easy prey, and poised itself in readiness to attack.

Borra took flight, shooting straight up and out of the top of the tree canopy into the dusky sky beyond. “Come _on_!” he called from above, “Move!”

The sudden motion prompted the wolf to strike. It raised its hackles and snarled, saliva flying in ribbons from its mouth. Lunging toward Maleficent and Diaval, it opened its massive jaws in preparation for the kill.

There was no time. Maleficent seized Diaval beneath his armpits and locked her arms around his chest. She beat her wings with all of her strength, pounding desperately into the air to gain height and lift them above the trees.

The wolf missed them by mere inches and wheeled around, growling and barking in frustration. Crouching down, it hesitated only a moment before leaping high into the air, snapping its sharp, fetid teeth at Maleficent’s exposed ankle.

She gasped as it connected, pulling her downward and shearing angry slashes into her skin. She kicked wildly at it, unable to direct her magic toward it without losing her hold on Diaval. Blood flowed freely, coating the wolf’s eyes and nose, and the surprise of it was enough to make the creature lose its grip on her. It fell to the hard ground with a loud thump and a pained yelp.

Maleficent flew straight upward, out of reach, still holding fast to Diaval. Her injured ankle was already beginning to heal itself.

Rising to its feet, the wolf snarled up at its retreating prey, licking droplets of warm Fey blood from its muzzle. It howled, low and long, its otherworldly voice following them upward as they flew above the tree line and out of the Moors.

Pausing several feet above the canopy, Maleficent angled her wings to hover and exhaled shakily. Diaval tilted his head back, leaning it against her shoulder so that he could look at her. “Do you see now why I don’t like wolves?” he asked. “Mangy creatures. Are you all right? It got you pretty well there.”

“I’m fine – it’s already healed itself. Now ready yourself to fly, I am going to change you right here in the air. I can’t carry you back to the barn like this, you are too heavy.”

“Are you castin’ aspersions on my beautiful self, Mistress? Awk!” In a burst of mist, Diaval vanished and emerged again in his raven form, flapping his wings to keep himself aloft.

“I wouldn’t dare to do such a thing.” Maleficent teased.

* * *

It was completely dark by the time they returned on hushed wings to the green barn on the outskirts of Konungr Heima. The sky was crystal clear, and the stars above twinkled in their millions in a glowing swath across the inky heavens.

As they approached the high window of the barn, Maleficent noticed a soft, flickering glow from within. Candles? Or was the barn on fire?

She shrugged and alighted on the roof, leaning over the side to peer through the window.

Ah, they were candles – quite a few of them, in fact. The upper level of the barn was lit up like the inside of a cathedral. Where had Shrike and Udo managed to find all of those? She could see them sitting in the far corner against a pile of hay. Udo’s cloak was spread on the floor between them, piled with food and flagons of water. Udo spotted her through the window and inclined his head in greeting.

Maleficent pushed the window open and tucked her wings against her body, somersaulting gracefully into the candlelit hayloft. No sooner had she cleared the window than Diaval swooped in after her, circling about and coming to rest on her head. He picked a piece of hay from between her horns and dropped it on the floor.

Behind them, Borra squirmed his way through the window, grunting with the effort of trying to fit through a space which was a fraction too small to accommodate him.

Maleficent raised an eyebrow. “Atmosphere? Or a romantic interlude?” she asked playfully but softly, mindful of the human dwelling nearby. It was distant enough that quiet noises should not carry, but the humans would be upon them in moments if she raised her voice. Fortunately, the candlelit window faced away from the house.

“I like to be able to see what I’m eating.” Shrike grinned. She waved her hand nonchalantly at the collection of candles. “We found these around the castle as we were trying to get out of there without being seen. Figured they wouldn’t miss a few. Or the food that we borrowed, either.”

“Borrowed?”

“Borrowed, stole, whatever. Come and have something to eat, you look half starved.”

Borra crouched down beside Udo’s cloak. “I’m impressed. How did you manage to get all of this back here?”

Udo smiled. “My cloak has uses beyond keeping me warm.”

Maleficent sat down opposite him and selected a flaky sweet pastry. Still on her head, Diaval chirruped, peering down at it in interest. He fluttered down beside her, bobbing his head from side to side, until she waved her free hand at him and gave him his man shape.

“Are you going to eat that?” he asked her as soon as he had a mouth for speaking.

“Yes. Get your own.” Maleficent replied, taking a delicate bite. Diaval pouted momentarily, but brightened again as he realised that Shrike and Udo had truly outdone themselves in their haul. He grabbed two pastries and sat back behind his Mistress. Shovelling food into his mouth with one hand, he began to carefully preen her wing with the other, removing bits of twig and embedded leaves with the innate skill of his raven nature.

Without preamble, Maleficent eyed Shrike and Udo. “What did you find, besides the castle kitchen?”

“Simply put, the Arbiter of Nyrsta Vígi is not behind Prince Wilfred’s kidnapping, although he knows about it and is disturbingly pleased. It benefits him, you see, and the man apparently has no conscience.” Shrike replied, clenching her jaw.

“It seems to be a defining trait among these people.” replied Maleficent.

“Indeed.” Udo continued, “They do seem to be quite unconcerned for the welfare of others. Their own welfare, however, is another thing. The Arbiter spoke of a power far to the north, in a derelict castle in the mountains. He is concerned that this power is growing and may prove a threat to his own. He called him the Warlock. He said that he was from the Moors.”

“The Warlock?”

“It can’t be the Erlkönig that Lickspittle was on about – he’s in pieces in a jar. Must be another magical bein’. They seem to be poppin’ up out of the woodwork around here.” Diaval commented as he eased his fingertips through Maleficent’s feathers. She was showing remarkable self-control around the other Fey, he thought – if they were back in the Moors, her eyes would have drifted closed and her head would be just about lolling back by now. He would have her purring one of these days. A raven had to have goals in life, after all.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Borra said gruffly, “I wouldn’t trust a single word that pixie uttered. How do we know that he isn’t lying? It could well be the other missing prince, that Fritjof, in the jar, and the Erlkönig has instructed him to keep it a secret. We have no way to know.”

“We do not. He is an inscrutable creature, and undoubtedly unhinged, if his journals are any indication.” Maleficent retrieved Lickspittle’s journal from within the bosom of her dress and tossed it onto Udo’s cloak.

“Sneaky.” Borra commented.

“We may need evidence of his state of mind once we return to the Moors. It seemed prudent.” Maleficent replied.

“He’s writin’ about sewin’ people together in that one.” Diaval interjected helpfully. “The demented fruitcake.”

Maleficent cleared her throat, silencing her companion, and continued. “We do, however, have a definitive link between Prince Fritjof and this Erlkönig, which is the fact that the prince was the captive of the Erlkönig for many years. Perhaps it is not entirely coincidental that both Fritjof and the Erlkönig vanished – one into dismembered limbs in a jar, yes, but the other is nowhere to be found – and within a few years there is a powerful being residing in the north of the country. Are they one and the same being?”

Both Shrike and Udo were staring at Maleficent, Borra and Diaval as though they had suddenly sprouted antlers. “Dismembered limbs… in a jar?” Udo asked cautiously. “How disturbing. I believe that we had the better task today, Shrike.”

The Jungle Fey nodded emphatically. “Definitely. Especially as we found a _definite_ link between this Warlock and Prince Wilfred.”

“Definite?”

“They spoke of the Warlock’s servant – a boy, simple of the mind.” Udo said.

“Ekkert – that _has_ to be Ekkert, Mistress.” Diaval gasped, his hand frozen halfway to his mouth with a squirming caterpillar pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “How many dimwitted boy-servants could there be around here?”

“I suppose that depends on the Nystra Vígan propensity for employing dimwitted boys.” Maleficent drawled. “You are quite right, though – on the balance of probability, it is most likely Ekkert, which gives us a solid lead on Wilfred’s whereabouts. Diaval, what did you just eat?”

“S’all right, Mistress, it’s the gooey one that tastes a bit like pine nuts. Completely harmless.” the raven man replied from around a mouthful of caterpillar. He returned his attention to her wings, hoping to find another delicious surprise within her lustrous umber feathers.

Maleficent raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. She should probably put a stop to his preening – Borra was glancing acidly at Diaval, and she wanted nothing to divert their attention from the task at hand. Besides which, Diaval’s skillful fingers were moving ever closer to the base of her wings. He generally knew better than to try and preen her feathers there, but occasionally he would forget, and his busy fingers would stray too far.

Maleficent knew that Diaval assumed that she did not like to be touched there because it was very close to where Stefan had torn her wings from her body, but in truth, that had less to do with pernicious memories than it did pure propriety. Not being of her kind, the raven man had no concept of just how sensitive that area of a Fey’s body actually was, and how intimate a touch it could be. If she were to reveal that her sudden flinches at his wandering touches were not from traumatic flashbacks, but an impulsive reaction to the glorious frisson of fire the contact sent down the length of her spine, it would undoubtedly embarrass him. It was perhaps better that he did not know.

Soon. In a minute. She would allow herself to enjoy his tender ministrations for a few moments longer, adept and exquisite in a way which was uniquely Diaval. In any case, preening was clearly necessary, based upon the growing pile of forest detritus beside her companion.

Perhaps she would just let him continue, after all.

Maleficent centred her thoughts. “We have a link between this Warlock and Wilfred in Ekkert, even if we are unsure of their identity. We know where this Warlock is based. That is where we now need to go – the castle in the north, in the mountains.”

“We can find the castle easily enough. I borrowed a map.” Shrike interjected.

“Borrowed, Shrike?”

“Actively acquired, then.” The Jungle Fey produced a thick roll of parchment from behind her and unrolled it on the floor beside Udo’s cloak.

Behind her, Maleficent heard Diaval mutter, “What is _this_?” as he pulled something from between her secondary coverts. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to know.

“We are here.” Shrike said, pointing at the large dot which represented Konungr Heima. “And the mountains that the Arbiter spoke of are all the way up here.” She rolled up the very top of the map and stabbed a finger into the middle of the stylised mountain range, where a tiny dot had been labelled ‘ _Járnahöll‘_. Between the two points lay the massive permafrost badlands; miles upon miles of barren land with a scant handful of settlements within. _Abandoned_ settlements, if the map was any indication, as most of the tiny marked villages had been crossed out with indelible black ink.

Borra leaned over and studied the map. “We can fly that in a day and a half, but not easily. We should have no more than a few hours of sleep, leave well before dawn, and make for this abandoned settlement.” He pointed at a tiny crossed out dot in the foothills, so insignificant to the cartographer that they had not even bothered to label it. “Hopefully there will be enough of it left to use it as a base as we recon the castle.”

Maleficent scrutinised the map, absently chewing on a date. “Agreed. If we leave a few hours before dawn, we should arrive around sunset. It won’t allow us time to look around, but it should give us sufficient light to find the settlement. I only hope that this Warlock has no scouts or other methods of early warning in the area.”

“We can’t know that until we get there.” Shrike shrugged.

“True. We must be alert nonetheless.” Maleficent picked up a handful of hay and stared at it intensely, watching as her magic weaved within the strands and transmogrified it into a satchel. She started packing the remaining food into it carefully. There was no sense in wasting it, after all, and it was more likely than not that there would be no easily accessible food henceforth.

“I wasn’t done with that, Mistress!”

“Go and catch yourself a mouse, then. If we eat it all tonight, there will be none left for tomorrow.”

With a twirl of Maleficent’s fingers, Diaval was a raven once more. He clicked his beak irritably at her, but quickly hopped over to one of the larger piles of hay in the loft, his feathered head cocked to the side as he listened carefully for the telltale rustling of a rodent.

Udo shook out his cloak, wrapping it around himself and returning to the haystack which had served as his nest the previous night. Shrike did the same, leaving only Borra – who had no desire to find himself in the firing line of Diaval’s hunting once again – and Maleficent.

“I feel as though we are getting ourselves into something far bigger than we first realised.” Borra muttered brusquely.

“Most things tend to be far bigger than we realise, Borra. Perhaps we need to adjust our expectations.”

“It was already dangerous, but it’s beginning to feel like suicide.”

“You don’t have to come.” Maleficent said quietly.

He scowled at her. “I’m not afraid.”

“I never said that you were. But Wilfred is not your family, and you are under no obligation to continue if you do not wish to.”

“I’m not going to leave. I’m just concerned that this is a turning into a bigger fight than we intended.”

“Diaval and I will do whatever it takes to find Wilfred and bring him home. If you wish to assist in doing that, I need to know that you are with us to the end, whatever it takes. If you are unwilling to promise me that, then it is best that you go home. Tell Aurora where we are and what we plan to do, and await our return. Nobody will think less of you for it.”

“I’m staying.” the Desert Fey retorted, crossing his arms stubbornly.

Maleficent scrutinised him for an uncomfortably long time – long enough that Borra began to visibly squirm under the intensity of her gaze. “All right.” she finally replied. “Then we had both best get a few hours of sleep whilst we can.”

Over by Borra’s haystack, a scrimmage of talons and feathers and a petrified squealing, suddenly silenced, indicated that Diaval had managed to catch another unfortunate victim. He hopped back toward them with the lifeless mouse dangling obscenely from his clenched beak by its tail, looking altogether too proud of his efforts.

Borra curled his upper lip in disgust. “I’m not watching him eat that. Goodnight.” He hauled himself to his feet and settled upon his haystack from the night before, grunting as he found a comfortable position.

Maleficent lay down upon her own pile of hay and wrapped her wings – clean, neat and impeccably preened once again – around herself, reveling in the delightful sensation of soft, warm feathers against her cheeks. She watched Diaval gobbling his prey with enthusiastic greed, her eyelids growing ever heavier. He had not yet joined her when she finally slipped into exhausted sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes on Chapter 9
> 
> Aurora’s experience of mastitis is, unfortunately, based upon a true story. I wasn’t preparing for war, certainly, but it was right up there with the sickest I have ever been in my life. Literal pus leaking out like a tap left on, that sort of thing. It’s a nasty, nasty infection, and not one to be taken lightly.  
> Unfortunately for Aurora, going that long between feedings would be very likely to lead to clogs and infections. It’s not a nice thing to add to the story, but I felt that it was important to not only return to her here and there (after all, it’s HER baby that is missing!), but also to touch upon her experiences in trying to be a ruler and strong for those around her whilst also dealing the physical and emotional repercussions of her son’s kidnapping. It's an unfortunately realistic outcome of her situation. I'm sorry if it grossed anyone out.
> 
> Diaval uses the insult "skamelar", which means scrounger or parasite. Definition from https://www.bustle.com/articles/96756-12-medieval-ways-to-insult-people-because-you-are-being-such-a-cox-comb-lately
> 
> I forgot to mention in the notes of the previous chapter than the rabbit creature is based upon a Wolpertinger, and the other creature is indeed a Tatzelwurm. The wolf which is encountered in this chapter is based upon the Inuit Amarok, although I suppose that it could also be read as a direwolf.


	10. Chapter 10

The crescent moon had risen in the scant hours that they had slept, and now hung, a sliver of brilliant white, low in the eastern sky. It cast a faint but disquieting silvery light across Nyrsta Vígi, catching upon the fine mist which had gathered since sunset and lending it an ethereal glow.

Konungr Heima receded into the night behind them as the five flew swiftly northward over the endless darkness of the cold desert. The meagre moonlight provided barely sufficient illumination to allow them to see each other; Diaval, his ebony feathers blending against the cloudless velvet blanket of the sky, was almost invisible.

Above them, the north star twinkled brightly, guiding their flight to the distant mountains.

Udo had estimated that they would have around four good hours of night flying before sunrise, and in keeping Polaris directly ahead of them, they would ensure that they were moving directly northward. Once the sun had risen, drowning out the light of the stars, they would rely upon Diaval’s avian sense of direction to reach their destination.

The crisp night air rushing past as they flew chilled Maleficent, though she resolutely ignored the discomfort and pushed herself harder. She had experienced far worse than a numbing wind.

To her right, Shrike beat her wings with practised ease, clad in a long-sleeved cloak of pale yellow, conjured from metamorphosed lengths of hay in the early hours before they had left the barn. Though the darkness made it difficult to discern her expression, Maleficent had no doubt that it would be driven and focused. Shrike rarely failed in anything that she attempted, whether it be a fight for survival or enticing Percival, the human captain of Phillip’s guard, into an intense and lascivious relationship, and she would not allow this mission to alter that.

To her left and slightly ahead flew Udo, his alabaster feathers reflecting the weak moonlight and giving him a ghostly, almost transcendental appearance, like an angel misplaced from the heavens. A fallen angel, perhaps, but one so resolute and gracious that his passage back into paradise would be all but assured when his time of Earth came to an end. Of all of them, he understood best of all the depth of Aurora’s loss, perhaps even more so than Diaval and Maleficent herself – the three tow-headed young ones who besieged him with open arms and joyful cries at day’s end were more than enough to allow the Tundra Fey to empathise deeply with the Queen’s plight. Maleficent knew that she could trust Udo to do whatever was necessary to rescue Wilfred.

Behind Udo, Borra swept along on Udo’s updraft. Unlike the others, Maleficent was able to see his face as she glanced back behind her. His jaw was clenched, intent on reaching their destination as quickly as possible, but his eyes seldom strayed from watching her. She could feel his gaze like an intense burn in the darkness, and was grateful that the cover of night hid her instinctive flush. Though his attention was somewhat uncomfortable, she chided herself for feeling that way. It could only be a positive that he found her compelling, after all; her intention to take him as a mate rested upon his willingness to accept such an arrangement. If he found her physically attractive, it would work in her favour.

Finally, ahead of her, providing her with his own slight updraft, flew Diaval. His flight would have been far easier had he followed her instead, but in typical Diaval fashion, he was loathe to admit that his wings were less capable by virtue of being the smallest of them all. He probably had some ridiculous idea about making her own flight less strenuous by flying ahead; it would be entirely typical of him. Sweet, caring, and utterly preposterous, but so very typical.

She would have little choice in the matter for the sake of keeping the peace, but Maleficent had to admit to herself that she would miss him terribly once she had to send him away.

The sky became imperceptibly lighter with the approach of dawn. A faint band of gold slowly appeared on the eastern horizon, brightening as the high clouds became a watercolour of pinks and oranges, finally drowning out the last of the starlight. As high as they were, Maleficent was aware of the precise moment that the sun revealed itself, a sudden dazzling burst of light which pierced the sky and exposed the land upon which it fell.

As the sun rose higher, Maleficent was better able to see the features of the landscape below them. An endless carpet of earth and shrubby plants, low to the ground and uniform in nature, occasionally interspersed with dull grey rocks and the odd dry riverbed. At one point, she spied a settlement, long abandoned and crumbling. She hoped that the one that they had set upon as a base was in better condition – she had no desire to spend her evening fixing a temporary dwelling to make it fit for habitation.

The sun was overhead when they landed for a short respite. Udo had spotted a rare source of water, allowing them to drink their fill and top up their near-empty canteens. The small creek was little more than a trickle, but it was glacial runoff, and so clear and clean that the taste was almost sweet.

The glacier itself was a considerable distance to their west, far enough away that it could not be seen, but persistent low-lying cloud where the land met the sky disclosed its presence. The land sloped infinitesimally slowly upward toward it, barely perceptible even from the air.

To the north, barely more than a mirage on the horizon, an indistinct shimmer of dark blue against the otherwise cerulean sky revealed the distant mountains. Still many hundreds of miles and hours of flight time away, Maleficent was nonetheless relieved to have them in sight; gods willing, they would find Wilfred alive and well there. Her body tingled with anticipation, tense though she was with concern for the unknown.

Though she diligently forced herself to imagine positive scenarios – finding the baby safe and healthy, and returning him to his relieved parents amid floods of cathartic tears from all concerned – she could not prevent the intrusion of thoughts to the contrary. Wilfred hurt, sick, or worst of all, cold and lifeless and beyond help. Not being able to find him after all and having to return to Aurora and Phillip empty-handed. The possibilities weighed heavily upon her, chasing away her imaginings of a happy ending to this dreadful chapter of their lives.

The flutter of wings and a comforting weight on her shoulder brought her attention back to the present. Diaval cooed gently, rubbing his feathered head against her sharp cheekbone. He knew, of course, where her thoughts were leading her. He always did. Maleficent smiled slightly, reaching up to stroke his soft feathers in gratitude.

“I would estimate another four, possibly five hours to our destination. We should arrive with enough daylight to make camp and scope out the surroundings.” Udo said.

“Good. If the settlements that we have passed thus far are any indication, we may miss the one that we’ve earmarked if we so much as blink.” Shrike replied.

“Caw-cawk-awww.” Diaval agreed solemnly from Maleficent’s shoulder.

“How is the food situation?” asked Borra. Maleficent pulled the satchel around to her front, hissing as the strap snagged on her wing, and held it open to him.

“We have enough that we have no chance of starving completely in the next few days, although we will have to ration it. Beyond that, should this venture take longer than anticipated, we will need to find a source of food. There are supposed to be horses on these plains, though I have yet to sight them. If necessary, I suppose we could eat a horse.” She raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the notion.

“If we get hungry enough to eat one.” Borra muttered.

“These plants may be edible. The horses must eat them.” Maleficent suggested drily.

“I think I’d rather the horse.” replied the Desert Fey, ripping a few tough, knobbly leaves from the shrub beside him and examining them ruefully. Edible hardly meant palatable.

Udo smiled in commiseration and rose to his feet, adjusting his own satchel on his back. “We should continue, lest we waste the daylight.”

With nothing around them but miles upon miles of monotonous, unpopulated land, there was nothing to do but agree.

* * *

The mountains loomed large in the near distance, grey and mottled against the blue of the sky. Though still far enough to be essentially featureless, and certainly too far to be able to see the castle Járnahöll, it was clear that these mountains were not the gently graduating slopes they had been assumed to be. High crags and sheer cliffs were the dominant characteristics, even from a distance, revealing the volcanic origin of the peaks. A lone swirl of wispy cloud circled the highest point.

“There!” Shrike called, pointing ahead and slightly east of where they were flying. “There’s something over there!”

They turned toward it, a miniscule variation in the uniformity of the landscape, hoping that it was indeed their intended destination. The sun was now barely twenty degrees above the horizon, lengthening the shadows on the ground below them. The light it cast had taken on the warm gold of late afternoon.

After a few minutes, it became clear that it was indeed the abandoned settlement, as squat shanty huts and small paddocks with dilapidated stone fences slowly emerged from the distant blur. The collapsing huts were built in a circular fashion around a central fire pit. The stone huts themselves were also circular, as though the Nyrsta Vígan builders had no concept of other possible shapes. One hut was noticeably larger than the others and was positioned in such a way as to intimate authority.

Maleficent circled the settlement and landed adroitly beside the fire pit. It had survived abandonment reasonably well, the low stone barrier still in good condition and the iron tripod still suspending a rusting pot over the remains of the coals. It was surprising, really, especially as several of the huts were literally crumbling into the earth.

Borra had landed beside the largest of the huts and was peering through the wooden door. Twice the size of the others, it was otherwise constructed in an identical fashion – a base level of stone dug into the ground in a circle and built upward from there. The stone itself was a grey-blue colour and uniform in texture, though the walls themselves were quite roughly finished. The huts had no obvious windows and narrow doors, so much so that the Dark Fey would struggle to enter easily due to the width of their wings. Whether this was an accommodation in light of the poor weather so far to the north or the scarcity of lumber could only be speculated.

“This one looks like some sort of communal gathering place.” Borra said. He turned to face the others. “It’s still furnished, although it’s dusty. Nobody has been here for many years.”

“It will do as a base.” Maleficent replied. She joined him at the hut door and had a look for herself. The entire structure housed a single round room with a fireplace in the centre. At one end of the room she could make out three rectangular tables and some rickety-looking stools, and at the other end, a series of makeshift cots, thick with dust. It was dark, dingy, and somewhat malodorous – but it would do. She sent some magic into the room, vanishing the worst of the accumulated dust before turning back to her companions.

“We have enough light for a hasty reconnaissance, which will hopefully give us sufficient information to make some sort of plan. Diaval,” she said to the raven, who suspected what was coming and managed to visibly droop despite being in his bird shape, “I need you to stay here. The sun is low in the sky, and we may not make it back before nightfall. Take care of the fire once I light it, so that we have a beacon to help us to find our way back in the dark.” She twirled her fingers to give him his man shape.

“I _need_ you, Diaval.” he mocked as soon as he could speak, “I can’t do this _without_ you, Diaval.” He pressed the back of his hand into his forehead melodramatically, the other splayed over his heart. “I would be _lost_ without you, Diaval!”

“I have no doubt that you could keep the fire going in a wolf shape, you cheeky bird. You do go on about how clever you are. It could be your chance to prove it.”

“You _wouldn’t_.” Diaval replied in feigned horror. “That would be _evil_.”

“Don’t tempt me. I saw a stack of peat bricks in the hut – undoubtedly there will be more in the other huts. We’ll need it in the fire pit.” Maleficent inclined her head toward the fallen huts.

As much as he had made a joke of it, Diaval still grumbled under his breath at the unfairness of her delegation – he wasn’t her servant anymore, and he still would have done whatever she wanted if she had just _asked_ him – he always did – though keeping the home fires burning hardly felt like a meaningful task in the search for Wilfred.

He made his way into one of the ruined huts in search of fuel. Wood was all but impossible to find out here, but the permafrost peatland provided a practical alternative. The first hut was devoid of anything useful, but in the second hut he found the motherlode in a stack of peat bricks as high as the ceiling. It looked to have been used as a storage room by the previous inhabitants of the settlement.

He looked up, trying to work out how the original inhabitants had held the roof up in the absence of easily available timber. There were buttresses – six of them, arranged in a circle – which arched up from the stone walls and met at a central point in the middle of the roof, directly above the fireplace. A small hole in the middle, intended as a primitive sort of chimney, allowed a tiny beam of sunlight into the gloomy interior.

The buttresses were oddly uneven in shape, and Diaval climbed up on a precarious-looking tower of peat for a closer look.

“Ingenious…” he muttered. The buttresses were constructed from _bones_ – horse bones, he suspected, based upon the size and shape of the ones that he could see. They overlapped repeatedly, three to four deep, and had been lashed together with strong nettle-fibre rope and some sort of resin. It had leached into the rope and the spaces between the bones as it dried hard, giving the bone buttresses enough strength to hold up the thatched roof of the hut.

Looking more closely, Diaval could see that the resin had also been used on the underside of the ceiling as well, coating the thatch against both inclement weather and stray sparks from the fireplace. He wondered where the original occupants had found such a thing – or had they made it? He was sure that he had read something in a book at some point which had detailed the process of making glue from cow hooves. Perhaps a similar process could be used with horses. It made sense – catch the horse, eat the meat, build with the bones and use the hooves to make glue to reinforce their buildings. In this sort of environment, survival would depend on the ability to utilise every available resource to its maximum.

The dwelling had a simple enough design, but it was likely effective for the climate. It was cold enough during the night in summer here, so Diaval surmised that the winters must be brutal. It was a wonder that the people of this settlement had managed to survive for long enough to build up the little hamlet, fencing in their fields (though what would grow in this place, the raven man had no idea) and ensuring that they were well-stocked with fuel which had to be dug from the ground. It seemed like an unusual place to find peatland, but perhaps Nyrsta Vígi had not always been such a cold and barren land.

The fuel itself was dark brown and not dissimilar from soil at first glance, but the unmistakable mossy smell of it pervaded the air within the hut. Diaval reached up to the very top of the peat stack, well above the top of his head, and knocked several bricks down to the hard-packed dirt floor below. Two of them shattered on impact, but he scooped up the broken pieces and piled the remaining bricks on top, hauling them out into the sunlight and to the fire pit where the four Dark Fey were having an animated discussion regarding their planned flight into the imposing mountains.

“I don’t see why we can’t simply attack if the opportunity presents itself.” Borra snarled. “If we see the child, why not just _take_ him?”

“Because we have no idea just what we are dealing with.” Maleficent hissed, waving her hands about in frustration. “If this Warlock is as powerful as the Nyrsta Vígans seem to think that he is, then we can expect repercussions. _Magical_ repercussions. Have we come this far only to have Wilfred accidentally killed because we dove in without thinking like common starlings in fledgling season?”

“Starlin’s are idiots.” Diaval piped up. “No sense, no consideration, just swoop swoop raaark raaark raaark, assumin’ that everyone is out to get their chicks, whether they’re lookin’ in that direction or not. You’re better than a starlin’, aren’t you Borra?” He dumped the peat bricks into the fire pit and returned to the hut for more, without waiting for the Desert Fey’s response. He could feel the burn of Borra’s glare on the back of his neck.

“We scout tonight and try to work out what we are up against. Fortifications, weapons, defenses, anything which may prove a problem in extracting Wilfred. That is _all_.” Maleficent reiterated firmly. “I refuse to put him in any more danger than is absolutely necessary.”

“And then?”

“We come back here and make a plan, contingent on what we discover. Diaval, stand back.” Maleficent said without looking behind her. Nevertheless, the raven man took several steps back from the fire pit, watching as his Mistress blithely flicked a hand toward it and ignited the peat bricks within. They caught quickly, dry as they were, and in under a minute a warm and hearty fire crackled merrily.

Maleficent caught Diaval’s eye. “Keep it burning, but don’t build it up too high – a gigantic plume of smoke would reveal our presence rather effectively, don’t you think? I trust that you can take care of lighting the fire in the hut when the sun sets?”

“Consider it done, Mistress. It’s not the most excitin’ job, but someone’s got to do it, right?”

“If it keeps us from becoming lost in the darkness, then it is the most vital job of all, birdie. Stay safe until our return.”

“You too. Come back to me safely.” Diaval’s lips twitched upward in a tiny smile of devotion, belying the nervous tremor in his voice. He was far safer in the abandoned settlement with only a peat fire for company than Maleficent was going to be, flying into an unknown situation with a potentially dangerous enemy – even if it was only for the purposes of gathering intelligence.

Maleficent inclined her head to acknowledge his words. She spread her magnificent wings and took off into the sky, followed closely by the other three Dark Fey. Diaval watched them disappear toward the mountain and sighed. He was not happy with this situation at all.

He scuffed his boot into the dirt, irritably gouging a rut, but it did little to assuage his feelings of helplessness and rejection. He could have helped. As a raven, he would have been the least obvious of them, unless birds were a rarity around these parts. What if something happened to Maleficent? How would he even _know_ , unless she was killed outright and he turned back into a-

He wouldn’t turn back into a raven, though, would he? Not anymore. If her temporary death on the day of Aurora and Phillip’s wedding was any indication, Diaval might _not_ revert to his original form if Maleficent died. He had changed from his bear shape straight into his human one, nary a wing in sight, when Ingrith had shot his Mistress and dissolved her into ashes, and he had no idea why. If the same happened again, he would have no way at all to know if she had been harmed.

Ferreting about in the dirt, he found what appeared to be a long two-pronged fork – heavy, and most likely made from the iron that the Nyrsta Vígans were so fond of – on the ground by the fire pit. Surmising that it was likely intended to be used for cooking, Diaval instead used it to poke sulkily at the fire. The peat crumbled, showering sparks like tiny orange flecks of lightning. He poked it again.

After a few minutes of playing with the fire, Diaval dropped the fork with a bored sigh and turned to face the sun. It was low in the western sky, but he estimated that it would not set for another hour at least. Perhaps he would take a walk a little way past the settlement and investigate the fields. They may have been used for livestock, but if not, if they had been used for crops, there was a possibility that he may find something which they could eat.

He could still be useful, even in this utterly useless assignment.

Throwing another peat brick on the fire to ensure that it would not go out in the time that he was not attending it, Diaval wandered south through the tiny hamlet to the sprawling fields beyond. A bitter wind was beginning to blow.

* * *

The closer they got to the mountains, the more apprehensive Maleficent became.

The desolate stone jutted aggressively skyward, falling away to dramatic cliffs on the south side where the elements had caused the stone to shear for millennia. In proximity, it was a dark grey which tended toward purple, though the fallen rocks which littered the surrounding miles had faded over time to a bluer shade. This must have been the source of the stone in the nearby settlement. Certainly, there was enough of it to build a large and thriving town, never mind a tiny, isolated village in the middle of the permafrost.

No sign of habitation could be seen from the direction of their approach. If there was indeed a castle in the mountains, it was well hidden by the lofty crags. It was a natural barrier, Maleficent realised – a strategic location in terms of fortification. She wondered at the purpose and motivation of those who had built it.

The mountain range was unusually limited in breadth, however. The peaks extended outward from a central point for several miles, more so from the east to the west than north to south – but quickly dropped off into scrub-covered foothills and then flattened into the desert plateau.

It was the skeletal remains of an ancient volcano, Maleficent realised. Weathered away over time – the winds must be frequent and fierce – the level of the land had eroded to the point where the solidified magma chamber had been exposed, and now stood tall and tenebrous against the surrounding landscape.

They slowed as they reached the peaks, crossing the barrier cautiously.

The mountains dropped in height with equal abruptness on the northern side, winding around in a roughly circinate fashion around a shallow central caldera. The fallen stone had crumbled into alluvial scree onto the ground, and toward the western side, a small lake had formed in the remains of the crater. Maleficent could detect the vague odour of sulphur in the air, no doubt thrown up by the volcano when it last erupted. There was no obvious indication that it was still active, but the possibility put her nerves on edge nonetheless.

“Back!” Shrike hissed as she crested the mountaintop, waving wildly behind her. The four Dark Fey ducked behind the nearest peak, and as one, peered over the top. There, sitting at the higher eastern edge of the dormant caldera as though dropped from the sky by an omnipotent being, was a castle.

“Járnahöll.” Maleficent glowered, even as her heart leapt within her chest at the thought that little Wilfred might be close enough to hear her should she raise her voice. _Hold on just a bit longer, little one, we’re here and we’re going to get you home._

The castle had been constructed from felsic stone. Obsidian, perhaps? It was a deep black colour, blending well into the caldera walls which rose abruptly behind it, and shone like glass. The individual stones had been hewn with such precision that the seams between them were all but invisible, resulting in an almost flawlessly reflective finish. The Nyrsta Vígans seemed to have a penchant for shiny castles, she mused.

The design of the castle reflected the mountains around it, tall and imposing, though the actual castle itself was relatively small. Three slim towers rose above a basic square ground floor, which was in turn surrounded by a double-thickness outer curtain wall. The merlons had long ago begun to erode from the battlements, landing in sad little heaps on the ground below. Small turrets adorned the four corners of the outer wall, but were in even worse shape than the crenellations between them.

Narrow slits in the two smaller towers were a mere suggestion of windows, with most already shuttered against the rising wind. The uppermost point of the tallest tower came to a crumbling spire above an open lookout, though Maleficent could hardly begin to speculate on what a sentry would be watching for in such a place. Between the natural fortification of the mountains and the human-made castle walls, they had yet to find a way in which did not involve wings.

Between the deteriorating stone wall and the castle proper, there was an area of open space. One corner had been fenced off for a garden, which appeared to be thriving in the rich volcanic soil despite the harsh weather conditions. The remaining space was little more than dirt and tufts of grass. Though they were at some distance, Maleficent could see over a dozen large brown shapes moving about within the larger area – a herd of horses.

It was a truly bizarre location for a castle, and even more peculiar that the humans had spent considerable effort in constructing it, only to abandon it to the elements and an eventual appropriation by a morally questionable being.

“It’s inhabited.” Borra grunted. “I can see candlelight in one of the windows. Halfway up the west tower.” As though hearing his words, a shadow from within the castle blocked the dull stream of light and closed the shutters firmly.

“Definitely inhabited. Can we get closer without being seen, do you think?” Shrike asked. She tilted her head toward her companions. “Maleficent, you probably blend in the most around here. Udo and Borra, you’re probably a bit pale against the rock, and I…” she trailed off, stretching out a slender wing and gesturing to the riot of colour in her feathers, “I’m probably even worse. Jungle Fey don’t blend in _anywhere_ , not that we should be expected to. We can stay behind the larger rocks and scope the overall terrain, see if anything could be used to strategic advantage, if you want to try and get closer.”

Maleficent nodded. “Borra, fly around to the southern side of the caldera and see if you can get a look at the castle fortifications. Udo, the perimeter, and Shrike, if you stay in the shadows then you should be able to investigate the northern end of the crater without being seen. I am going to fly around and approach from the west, where the castle is closer to the peaks.”

She was not sure what, if anything, they were likely to find. The inhabitants of the castle had to have a way in and out, and if the Arbiter was correct and the young servant boy was indeed Ekkert, which, given the presence of the horses seemed all the more likely, then he and Vætki had to have a way in and out.

Udo and Shrike went north, with Udo remaining close to the mountains and Shrike ducking down into the crater at the edge of the lake. Her rainbow wings were indeed less obvious from a distance, blending into the scattered shadows throw by the jagged walls of the cliffs above the water.

Borra swiftly few around to the south, watching the castle intently. Maleficent knew that he was taking mental notes – assessing the state of the walls and the towers, counting the number of horses and finding the locations of any additional defences.

Rounding the mountains to the west, Maleficent flew in low between the peaks, hiding herself in the long shadows which crept quickly along the caldera walls as the sun dipped down toward the horizon. She landed carefully beside the castle wall, running her hand along the smooth stone and marvelling at the workmanship. Could humans have made this, or had magic been involved somehow?

To her right, she could see a large wooden door in the wall; obviously, this was the human way of entering and exiting the castle. It was odd that it had been placed on this side of the structure, but she supposed that it had something to do with the lay of the land and the added protection that the high mountains afforded.

Maleficent spread her wings and gave one powerful beat – just enough for her to peek over the top of the wall through the embrasures whilst hanging on for dear life.

Other than the horses, there was little sign of life at first glance.

The sound of shouting made her duck down further below the wall, with only her eyes and the top of her head remaining visible from the castle. For the first time in her life, Maleficent cursed her horns. Hopefully, the light would be low enough to camouflage them against the backdrop of the mountains. At least they weren’t as pale as Udo’s.

“Close the blasted windows, stupid boy!” came a hoarse and surly voice from within the lower floor of the castle. “Haven’t you been watching the sky?!”

The shutters on the ground floor started to close, one by one, struggling as the wind buffeted them. By the sixth and last window, the closest to her hiding place, Maleficent was able to see the face of the person shutting them.

“Ekkert…” she whispered. The boy seemed unperturbed by the torrent of verbal abuse which continued to rain down on him as he attended to the window shutters. His vague smile was still plastered on his face, and he appeared to be swaying in time to a tune inside of his own head, ignoring the ongoing tirade as though it were no more important than the sound of the wind.

As the last of the windows closed, the angry voice fell silent against the force of the gale.

A single remaining faint light in one of the west tower windows caught Maleficent’s attention. It had not yet been shuttered, though the wind blew ever stronger. Without thinking, she flew upwards toward it, reeling backward as the increasing wind ensnared her wings and blew her over. It was almost at the point where it was unsafe to fly. Heavy clouds had begun to blow in from the north, plunging the crater into a false twilight as they began to block out the dying rays of the evening sun.

The castle windows were barely the width of Maleficent’s closed fist, but were still large enough to be able to look through. She grasped the stone window frame with both hands to anchor herself and tucked her wings tightly against her body to reduce their surface area in the wind. Squinting into the soft candlelight, she carefully peeked inside.

The room was a small bedroom, spartan and drab, with a rickety bed and an antiquated cradle beside it. Beside the bed, seated on an uncomfortable-looking chair, was a young woman rendered ancient by the world-weary look in her deep brown eyes. Maleficent had seen such a look before – indeed, she had felt it, and understood both the grief and helplessness behind it.

A tiny squeak caused the woman to look up, and the candlelight fell completely upon her face. Maleficent gasped. It was Vætki.

The girl rose and went to the cradle, smiling sadly. “Esna zaude, haurtxo txikia. Esne pixka bat nahi al zenuke?” she murmured, reaching in to pick up a swaddled bundle.

The blankets fell away as she cuddled the wriggling child within them, revealing a shock of wispy curling blonde hair. Maleficent bit down on her lower lip with enough force to draw blood to keep herself from exclaiming aloud. _Wilfred_!

Vætki settled herself back on the chair, fiddling with the front of her tunic as the baby squirmed and squawked in his impatience. She lifted Wilfred to her breast and he latched hungrily, kicking his chubby little legs in delight.

Maleficent glared at her for daring to do such a thing with Aurora’s child, even as the logical part of her brain insisted that it was a good thing that the girl was feeding him, because it meant that Wilfred was not being starved. He was being cared for, even though he was a prisoner.

Though if Vætki was feeding him, Maleficent realised with a sudden pang, she must have borne a child herself at some point. Where was it, if not here with her? The girl hardly looked old enough to be a mother.

The young woman was murmuring to Wilfred again as she pulled his blankets more tightly around him. “Haizea gero eta indartsuagoa da. Jan azkar, Vækti leihoa itxi dezan.”

Maleficent did not recognise the language – it was certainly not Nyrsta Vígan, in any case. She doubted that Vætki and her brother were actually from Nyrsta Vígi, though. They had a different look to the other inhabitants of the land, and if this Warlock had kidnapped Wilfred, it was not much of a stretch to assume that he might have done the same with the two siblings.

The window was far too small for anyone but Diaval, and then only in his raven shape, to squeeze through. Every fibre of her being was screaming at her to _get Wilfred_ , he was mere feet away, but she had no way to get to him without calling attention to herself.

No, the rescue had to be planned. It had to be logical, not reactive. They not only had to recover Wilfred, but they should probably also neutralise the Warlock for good measure in case he decided to kidnap the child again.

Maleficent took one last long look at Wilfred before forcing herself from the window, wishing that she could whisper reassurance into his dear little ears and hold him close to her once more. It felt like tearing out a part of her soul to fly away from him. It was _wrong_. 

Still, she knew where he was now. She knew that he was alive and well, and being cared for by this enigmatic girl. She would return, and she would take him away from here, back home to his mother and father and the people who loved him.

Though it nearly killed her to do it, Maleficent made herself leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes on Chapter 10
> 
> An Australian Magpie would have been a far better example of thoughtless indiscriminate swooping than common starlings, but I doubt that Maleficent would be au fait with antipodean bird species and the terror which they incite in the hearts and minds of those at their mercy every September.
> 
> The mountains at the northern end of Nystra Vígi are loosely based on the Dolomites in Italy, if you need a visual. Those mountains are limestone, however, and I imagined the Nyrsta Vígan mountains as being comprised of ancient extruded igneous rock with shale-like shearing qualities.
> 
> Vætki is not speaking gibberish, despite the letter x appearing with surprising frequency.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone order angst with a side of fries?

Diaval shivered in the icy wind as he added more peat to the fire pit, prodding it with the long fork until it was well alight. He turned his face skyward once again, squinting against the wind as it blew locks of ebony hair across his face, hoping to see some sign of his Mistress and the other Dark Fey. There was nothing but looming grey cloud, visibly swirling despite the darkness of the encroaching night.

He walked the short distance to the hut and stuck his head through the narrow door to check on the fire that he had lit within. Transporting a flaming peat brick, impaled on the end of the iron fork, in high winds without burning himself or anything else was an experience that he had no desire to repeat.

Fortunately, the fire was burning away merrily and had already warmed the space considerably. There was enough peat stacked against the wall to keep it going all night, although Diaval suspected that it would be less necessary once the hut was occupied with five warm bodies.

Assuming that the other four came back.

He shut the door again, trying to contain the heat within, and wandered back to the fire pit to poke it again. There was little else that he could do to pass the time, and his concern for Maleficent’s welfare was increasing by the minute. It was not safe to fly in this sort of wind, especially as it was beginning to blow up minute ice crystals, but she would never let that stop her. He hoped that she was all right.

He stomped on a peat brick and broke it up into clumps, instantly regretting it when the wind blew the loamy dirt straight into his mouth. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, spat it out repeatedly and wiped his lips on his sleeve.

“That was stupid.” came a voice over the howling wind. Diaval turned on his heel, a relieved grin splitting his face from ear to ear.

“Mistress, you’re all right.” He hadn’t heard them land, but there they all were, looking dishevelled and exhausted, their wings wrapped tightly by their sides as they were battered by the wind.

“As all right as one can be after flying through a hurricane.” she quipped over the noise of the gale, following Udo, Shrike and Borra into the hut and beckoning to Diaval to come with her.

“Are you hungry?” Diaval asked once the door was shut firmly and the roar of the wind no more than a rumble. “I went out to the fields before the sun set. They were growin’ vegetables and things out there, and a lot seems to have survived.” He gestured to one of the tables, now covered in an assortment of both recognisable and completely unknown tubers.

“Starving.” Shrike replied. She rifled through the table and selected a turnip, which she demolished in record time.

“Diaval,” Maleficent said, taking the raven man by the elbow and drawing him away from the others, “I saw him. I saw Wilfred.” Her eyes darted back and forth across his face, watching as delight and relief found a home there.

“You _saw_ him? He’s alive?” Diaval blinked rapidly, his eyes already glistening with tears. He leaned in closer to her. “Is he all right? You couldn’t get to him at all?”

“I could not get to him, but yes, he is alive. Vætki has him – she is feeding him, so he is not going hungry. She appears to be caring for him quite well. We will have him back soon.” Maleficent smiled encouragingly, hoping against hope that her words would prove true. 

Diaval let out a choked sob. He threw his arms around her, sniffling uncontrollably into her neck.

“Silly bird.” Maleficent muttered, patting his back awkwardly. Was she supposed to say ‘there there’, or something like that? Comforting others was hardly her strong suit, although she supposed that she should be used to Diaval wearing his heart on his sleeve after all these years. He had been a sobbing mess dancing with Aurora after her wedding. “Please stop crying. Wilfred is perfectly fine, and so there is no reason to go to pieces.”

Diaval pulled back with a shaky breath, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Sorry, Mistress. Just got a bit overwhelmed there. I miss the wee fellow.”

“We all do, Diaval. He will be back with us soon.” _Please, please let it be true._

“Perhaps we should discuss our discoveries and make a plan for tomorrow.” Udo called from the table. He was holding what appeared to be some sort of carrot, although it was inexplicable pointed at both ends. After a few moments, he seemed to make a decision on how best to attack it and bit into the middle.

“Yes, of course.” Maleficent replied, striding over to the table and pulling up a stool beside Borra, who was ignoring everyone in favour of stuffing vegetables down his throat as though he had starved for weeks rather than hours. Diaval took up a position beside her and helped himself to a bunch of radishes.

“First and foremost – I saw Wilfred. He is alive and appears to be well. I also saw both Ekkert and Vætki, so it appears that our theories thus far have been quite correct.” Maleficent began. She reached over and slyly swiped one of Diaval’s radishes, ignoring his indignant outburst and biting into it smugly.

“What about this Warlock?” Shrike asked.

Maleficent shook her head. “I heard him shouting at the boy but did not actually see him.”

“He’s there, though, which means that we need to factor him in, especially if he is a warlock by nature as well as by name.” replied Shrike. She turned to the Desert Fey opposite her. “Borra, what are we looking at in terms of their defences?”

Borra paused midway through a turnip. “Deh cartle waws are…” he trailed off, chewing noisily, before he swallowed and tried again. “The castle walls are in poor shape, and it would take very little to pull them down completely. The castle itself looks better maintained, though. I saw no sign of any defences beyond that, though, which was interesting. Better for us, but it was strange. I suppose that they don’t expect visitors around here.”

Maleficent wondering if the entire point of building Járnahöll in such a remote and inaccessible place was to discourage visitors – the passion project of a long-dead hermit king, perhaps. She found the idea to be disturbingly relatable.

“I flew the perimeter of the caldera twice. There is a scree slope on the north-eastern end which leads down the mountain to the plateau – no doubt this is the entry point for those who lack wings.” Udo reported. “There appear to be no other accessible points of entry on foot.”

“The lake in the crater is very deep. I also saw evidence of mining, although the shafts were obviously abandoned long ago. They could be a potential hiding place for the Warlock when we attack, so we must be mindful of that. There is little else to report, really.” Shrike concluded.

“I found turnips.” Diaval muttered sullenly, resting his head on his hand and leaning his elbow on the table. Maleficent twitched an eyebrow and refrained from praising him on his magnificent discovery, choosing instead to swipe another one of his radishes to distract him from feeling as though his contribution was less important.

“Our issues, as I see them, are twofold. Getting to the castle is simple enough, but extracting Wilfred unharmed is quite a different matter. The windows are extremely narrow,” Maleficent held her thumb and forefinger apart to indicate, “And I question if Wilfred would actually fit through them. Even if he could, I would have to have Diaval go in as a raven, change him into a man, have him pass Wilfred through the window, and then change him back into a raven so that he could escape himself. It is eminently doable, but only if we can distract the inhabitants of the castle at the same time.”

“Would the girl help us?” Borra asked.

“I cannot say. She and her brother took Wilfred for this Warlock in the first place, so we cannot be assured of where her loyalties lie.” The girl was an enigma, even more so than her brother.

“And the other issue?” asked Shrike.

“The Warlock himself. We know almost nothing about him. It does not fill me with confidence to go in with such a variable, though realistically we have little choice.”

“Well, we do have a choice. We could choose to do nothing and wait until we know more.” Borra shrugged, though he seemed unimpressed at the thought of spending additional time in the Nyrsta Vígan desert.

Maleficent narrowed her eyes at him. “I cannot say that I am comfortable with the prospect of leaving a helpless child to his fate, until such time as it is more ‘convenient’ for me to return for him.” she said icily.

“That’s not what I meant.” the Desert Fey muttered sullenly.

“Then what did you mean? How long do we wait to rescue him? A week? A month? A year or two, perhaps?” she asked, baring her fangs.

Borra threw up his hands in frustration. “You said yourself that he is being cared for – he is in no danger right now!”

Maleficent struck her palm forcefully against the table and leaned menacingly toward him. “You cannot know that, Borra! How can you suggest leaving him for a second longer than necessary? Decent creatures do not leave helpless young ones all alone in the world!”

Diaval’s eyes flicked to his Mistress, taking in her posture, her tone and the faint glow of green which had begun to creep from beneath her palm. Her shoulders were rigid and her jaw was clenched, her lips a thin line. He could not see her eyes, but he had little doubt from her tone that they would be the deep, emerald green of barely controlled destructive magic. She was furious – dangerously furious.

He realised that she was no longer speaking of Wilfred, and that something in Borra’s argument had struck a long-forgotten nerve. He tensed in anticipation of having to intervene before Maleficent disembowelled someone, even if that someone happened to be Borra. Not for his sake, certainly, but Maleficent would undoubtedly come to regret committing murder once she had calmed down.

“Or perhaps that is something of a Dark Fey tradition?” Maleficent continued, glaring at each of her bewildered companions in turn, “Leaving babies to fend for themselves until they can be put to better use for the greater good?”

“What?” Borra replied, utterly confused. “Are you still talking about the prince?”

The floodgates had opened, and Maleficent was evidently no longer in control of herself. “It takes one and three-quarter hours to fly from the ancestral island to the Moors at a leisurely speed. A three and a half hour round trip. Barely an afternoon.”

Diaval suddenly understood. It was something that she seldom spoke of, but he knew that it had bothered her greatly since she had discovered that she was one of many, and not the last of the Dark Fey as she had long assumed herself to be.

“And yet, years ago,” Maleficent continued, “When my parents fought the humans and lost their lives for their trouble, I was left alone in the Moors, a helpless baby. I was not even a year old. The Fair Folk raised me until I could look after myself, but _I was alone_.” Maleficent snarled, even as her voice became tremulous. “I had _no idea_ that I was not the last of my kind until Conall rescued me from the sea that night two years ago. If the Dark Fey were that close, _why did nobody ever come for me?_ ”

“Mistress…” Diaval said softly, reaching out for her hand. She snatched it away.

“Whatever the story, I choose to be better than that. I am not leaving Wilfred for a moment longer than necessary, and certainly not indefinitely. Tomorrow, we go to the castle, and we bring him home.” She rose suddenly, sending the stool flying backwards. Stomping to the door, she flung it open and shimmied through into the biting wind, slamming it behind her.

The remaining Dark Fey sat in silence.

Diaval stood slowly, regarding them all one by one.

“It wasn’t you.” he said. “None of you are old enough, I don’t think. But I think that she’s owed an explanation, you know, because she’s right. Leavin’ a little baby all alone in the world is wrong, and she would have had an easier time of it if she’d grown up with her own kind. She never would have had her wings stolen, for a start.”

Udo sighed. “It was none of us, that is true enough. Our parents’ generation were the ones who lead the Dark Fey then. I believe, however, that nobody knew the fate of Maleficent’s parents for many years. Lysander and Hermia left the island a few months before her birth, hoping to make peace with the humans. Word of their deaths did not reach us until long afterwards, and by then, it seemed unkind to take her from the only home that she had ever known. Perhaps the wrong choice was made.”

“Perhaps there was no right choice.” Diaval said kindly. “Either way, she’d still lost her parents. I don’t know why you’ve never told her, though. She deserves to know why it happened, and to know that nobody carin’ about her wasn’t the reason why she grew up all alone.” He inclined his head to them and walked purposefully to the door.

“You’re not going out in that?” Borra asked, staring at Diaval as though he had grown a second head.

Diaval shrugged and pulled the door open. “My Mistress needs me.” he replied simply, and stepped out into the squalling storm.

Pulling the door closed behind him, the raven man raised his arm up over his eyes to shield them from the shards of ice which blew into his face with astounding force. The world was a swirl of whites and greys, blustering and howling from every direction and knocking him from his feet. The fire in the pit had blown out, and he could barely make out the shape of the tripod through the storm.

Maleficent couldn’t possibly have gone far in this. There was no physical way that she could have flown, not with the wind so strong, and even in anger, she was not foolish enough to try.

He hoped.

Diaval staggered forward a few steps, his coat flapping wildly and smacking painfully into his thighs. He was already chilled to the bone. “Mistress!” he called, but to no avail; the gale swallowed up his words and whisked them into oblivion.

Shivering violently, he forced himself forward a few more paces, almost blind in the relentless savagery of the storm. Squinting into the ferocious whirl of grey, he thought that he could make out a faint flare of green light, bursting in fits and starts from the chimney-hole of one of the huts on the other side of the fire pit.

He hoped that it was his Mistress, and not his mind playing tricks.

Slowly, painstakingly, Diaval crossed the circular common area of the settlement, fighting the wind and hoping that it was not blowing him too far from his course. The light from the chimney had stopped, but he figured that if he continued in the same direction, he should run into the hut within a hundred paces.

His limbs felt sluggish, numb from cold and no longer responding to his will. He dragged his feet jerkily, stumbling over the flat ground and his own toes, but keeping his eyes trained on his destination.

He was almost there. The air in his lungs burned like fire, and he gasped from the stabbing pain of it. _Slow breaths. Shallow breaths. Keep walking._

A few more paces, and a few more, always fighting against the icy wind. Strangely enough, though, the cold suddenly didn’t seem so bad. Diaval felt almost sleepy, as though he was still a wee chick nestled safely in his egg. He couldn’t feel most of his body anymore, but that was all right, because nothing hurt now. He couldn’t really feel anything, just a dull numbness which spread from his fingers and toes and enveloped his whole body. He wasn’t even shivering anymore.

Just a few more steps to the hut, and then he could sleep. If not for his Mistress needing him, he would probably just curl up right here on the ground, he was so tired, so very tired…

…but she needed him. She needed him, and he had to go to her. Diaval fought his way forward, even as his vision began to blur, and bumped face-first into the hut door. He supposed that he should knock, it was only polite, but couldn’t quite remember how to use his hands. He settled for banging his head on the door a few times instead.

Maleficent dumped an armload of peat bricks into the cold fireplace and blasted them with her magic, igniting each one and stoking the fire until it raged as strongly as her own anger. She shook the ice from her feathers, grateful for their presence as a barrier against the brutal wind as she had made her way to the empty hut.

It was not fair of her, she knew, rebuking herself as she flicked away the dust from the furnishings with her magic – her companions were of comparable age to herself, and they had been no more than children – if indeed born yet – when she had been orphaned in the Moors. It was not their doing, and not their fault. They should not have to answer for the mistakes of their elders.

Even so, the unfairness of leaving her to grow up alone and vulnerable pained her more than she cared to admit, feeding into her existing feelings of being unlovable and a vessel for all that was evil in the world. Nobody had come for her. Nobody had cared enough to come. Not when her parents died, not when her wings were stolen. When she needed her people the most, they had turned a blind eye to her suffering. It was only when they needed her power that they came.

She supposed that it was all that she had to offer, though. Getting by on personality was more of Diaval’s metier. He was loved for his own self, his goodness and his kindness, so much so that even without a smidgen of his own magic he was almost universally adored in the Moors. She, on the other hand, was tolerated at best.

A dull thudding on the door caught her attention. It sounded as though somebody was trying to knock, but that was impossible – there was an arctic tempest seething around them, and nobody in their right mind would have followed her out into-

Oh no.

Maleficent bolted to the door and threw it open, catching Diaval as he stumbled over the threshold. His black hair was covered in frost, turning it almost white, and his face was littered with tiny cuts from the swirling shards of ice which whipped through the air like glass. He slumped against her numbly as she slammed the door shut.

“ _Idiot_ bird!” she hissed, propping him up under his arm, “What are you doing out in this storm?!”

“Y’were upset, Mistress.” Diaval slurred, “Had to come t’you.”

“I would have been far _more_ upset if you had gotten lost and died of hypothermia! Foolish, _foolish_ creature!” 

Maleficent steered him toward the fire and stripped off his sodden coat, dumping it on a stool by the door. She flicked her hand toward the bed to bring it closer to the heat.

“Sit.” she ordered. Diaval complied dumbly, blinking slowly on the edge of the bed as he stared into the dancing flames. Tiny flecks of ice had accumulated on his eyelashes.

“S’cold out there.” he murmured.

“It is freezing out there, and you decided to take a little stroll in it. You could have _died_ , Diaval.” Maleficent shook out a blanket and wrapped it firmly around him, enveloping him like a frostbitten caterpillar in a cocoon. “I am not worth that.”

“Sure y’are, Mistress. I’d die for you.” the raven man murmured as his head lolled sideways.

Maleficent’s eyes pricked with tears, though she refused to succumb to any emotion other than the immense irritation that Diaval’s recklessness warranted. “I would rather that you didn’t.”

“I’d rather not either, but I would.” His sincerity would have been endearing had he not been quite so close to actually achieving it.

“You do get sentimental when you’re on the brink of death, don’t you?” Maleficent sat beside him and rubbed her hands up and down his arms inside the blanket, trying to warm him. She did not like the slackness of his features or the sleepy, confused look in his eyes.

“I’m not dyin’.” Diaval insisted feebly.

“You are hardly in a position to make a sound judgement on that.” Maleficent sniffed.

He blinked sleepily. “S'cold, Mistress.”

“Yes it is.”

“They didn’t know, y’know.” Diaval mumbled. “Didn’t know that your parents had died. They didn’t know to get you. Udo told me.”

“Is that what you flirted with death to come and tell me?” Maleficent replied, arching an eyebrow. If that was his reasoning, then he truly was a fool.

“No, I just didn’t want you upset and alone.” Diaval whispered, looking into her eyes. Lifetimes of understanding existed within those black depths, inhuman as they were, and Maleficent felt a pang of something that she couldn’t quite grasp, for all that it was familiar.

“Foolish bird…” she muttered, though she spread her wings around him, enveloping him in their warmth. He rested his head on her shoulder, poking his icy nose into her neck and causing her to hiss at the sudden cold.

After a few minutes, Diaval began to shiver, which relieved Maleficent immensely. “You’re warming up. Good.”

“I d-don’t f-f-feel warm.”

“Do you have any notion of how dangerous it is to allow your temperature to drop beyond the point of shivering? Lie down.” She eased him down onto the lumpy straw-filled mattress, wrinkling her nose at the musty scent which wafted from within it.

Leaving the raven man curled up on the bed and almost vibrating as his body tried to heat itself up, Maleficent rifled through the few boxes and cupboards which contained the meagre possessions of the previous occupants. Opening a large wooden box, she hummed in satisfaction at finding a pile of extra blankets. She could magic blankets, of course, but these were good, warm Nyrsta Vígan blankets, made for just this sort of weather.

There were three of them, heavy thick-woven wool which were obviously geared toward function rather than aesthetics. Beautiful things had little place where survival was less assured, though Maleficent surmised that her raven would argue otherwise if only for the sake of it. 

She used all of the blankets to cover Diaval, who was still swaddled like a man-sized baby and whimpering about as much as one too, whining incoherently about the sharp stabbing pain of sensation returning to his frozen fingers and toes.

Maleficent rolled her eyes and crawled in under the blankets beside him, shifting her wing to cover him with another layer. “Make room, you great freezing lump.” She wound an arm around him, trying not to shudder in discomfort at how cold he was.

Diaval rolled onto his back and smiled vaguely at her. “You’re w-warm. I l-like you.”

“And you’re a talking icicle entirely lacking in common sense. I suppose I still like you despite it.” Maleficent smirked.

“You _l-like_ me? Oh no, if you’re admittin’ th-things like that, maybe I _am_ d-dying after all…” He closed his eyes melodramatically.

Maleficent snorted. “Hardly. The next world will be denied your presence once again. You’re welcome.”

“Another l-life debt, Mistress?”

“I can’t say that I’ve been keeping score.” Even if she had been, he had saved her from all manner of things over the years, so they were almost certainly even in that regard.

“You’d m-miss me if I were d-dead.” Diaval smiled, apparently comforted by the thought.

Of course she would miss him if he were dead. That went without saying. Still, Maleficent had no intention of encouraging such a morbid train of thought.

“Not if you don’t stop chattering.” she said scathingly. “Go to sleep, Diaval.”

“You love me.” he murmured cheekily, rolling over to face the fire. “You’d be l-lost without old Diaval.”

Maleficent curled up against his back, her lips close enough to his ear that he could feel the warmth of her breath. The corners of her mouth twitched into a tiny smile as she whispered to him as softly and gently as a feather’s touch, “Shut up.”

Though she felt as though she had hardly rested at all, Maleficent supposed that she must have slept, because the cold, dull grey of morning had begun to filter into the hut through the chimney hole. The wind still blew, but it had died down overnight to an intermittent bluster, occasionally sweeping in through the ceiling in unpleasant icy gusts.

Between that, the heat radiating from the glowing coals in the fireplace, and the warmth of the raven man in the bed beside her, Maleficent had little desire to move.

Diaval had wormed his way out of his blanket cocoon as he had warmed up overnight and had ended up more or less on top of her, with one arm behind her head and the other thrown over her back, where his hand curled up at the base of her wings. His head lay on her chest, a mess of sable hair and raven feathers. Maleficent was almost certain that he was dribbling on her.

She should wake him up. They needed to make a plan for rescuing Wilfred, and that could not be achieved until she did.

She fondled his hair gently, twining her fingers through his thick locks and smiling slightly at the hum of pleasure that he made in response. 

His arms tightened around her and he snuggled closer. His long fingers tangled in her feathers, stroking and caressing the sensitive spot where her wings joined her shoulders. Maleficent bit her lip to keep from moaning aloud. He was asleep and he had no idea what he was doing. It was a reflex, accustomed as he was to preening her feathers. She absolutely should not be enjoying it, silently relishing the deep, longing ache that his touches stoked within her, her mind wandering to secret, hidden places which contemplated what else those clever fingers might be able to accomplish.

Shaking her head, she admonished herself for allowing such thoughts. She could not allow such a distraction from her intended course, though her reasoning behind choosing Borra seemed increasingly ambiguous.

Love meant pain. Love meant vulnerability. Love would only lead to heartache. She could not allow herself to feel what she was feeling, because it could not end well for her.

No, they had work to do, and she should be discouraging this sort of thing, because it could not continue once she had advised Borra of her intentions. It was best if she put a stop to it as soon as possible.

“Diaval.” Maleficent murmured, shaking the raven man’s shoulder. “Diaval, wake up.”

“Hmmh?” Diaval grumbled. He lifted his head and gazed at her blearily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You drooled on me.”

“Oh. Sorry, Mistress.” he smirked. He sat up and wiped his sleeve over the wet spot on her chest, trying to mop up the puddle of dribble.

“I take it that you’re feeling better?” Maleficent asked.

Diaval flashed her a crooked grin. “Right as rain now. I’m feelin’ positively toasty. Are you feelin’ better? You were pretty upset last night.”

“I am not going to apologise to them.”

“I never said you should.” He held out his hands in supplication. “I’d rather not be a mealy worm this mornin’.”

“Good, because I am not going to. And a mealy worm would be a useless addition to a rescue party, so you may consider yourself safe from such a reprisal.”

“Only until we get back to the Moors.” Diaval grinned. He looked up through the chimney hole to the grey sky above. “Weather’s improved.” he commented.

“Not enough to contemplate a rescue today, unfortunately. Typical, really, we have had barely a breeze since we arrived in Nyrsta Vígi, and no sooner do we locate Wilfred…” Maleficent trailed off, watching Diaval sadly. They had to plan a rescue, but she also had another important task, and it should not be delayed any longer. “Diaval, we need to talk.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Nothin’ good ever came of that sentence. What’s wrong?”

Maleficent sat up and threaded her fingers together in her lap. “I have been thinking.”

“Oh no.”

She glared at him briefly before continuing. “I have been thinking about the dilemma of taking a mate. The Dark Fey are right in one respect – as the last of my line, and the only one with the sort of power that I have, I almost have an obligation to ensure that it continues.”

“You don’t have to have babies if you don’t want to, Mistress. It’s not an obligation.”

“I know, but I never said that I didn’t want children – only that there is an added element of intention behind having them.”

“And you’ve been thinkin’ about this.”

“Yes. Specifically, _who_ I should choose as a mate, in light of what would be best for any resulting children in terms of Dark Fey society.”

“How romantic, Mistress.” Diaval quipped, though Maleficent detected an edge of concern in his voice.

She sighed. There was no easy way to do this. Irrespective of how she presented her decision to Diaval, he was not going to like it.

 _Quickly. Like jumping into an icy lake. Just do it and get it over with._ She threw off the blankets and stood up, striding a few paces before turning back to him.

“You may recall, some months ago, that I vetoed the possibility of taking Borra as a mate.” Maleficent began. Diaval slowly cocked his head to the side, his eyes widening in alarm.

“Yes, you did. _‘Far be it for me to unleash such an evil upon the world’_ , you said. You’re not… you’re not _reconsiderin'_?” Diaval quavered, incredulity settling on his face. He got up from the bed and approached Maleficent, who took an unconscious step back. “You’re not thinkin’ of Borra as a mate, surely?”

She swallowed hard and forced herself to meet his eyes. “Yes, Diaval. He makes the most sense. He is a leader, and those leadership qualities should be passed on to any offspring that would result. He is largely respected by the other Dark Fey. He is a sensible choice.”

“ _Sensible_? Mistress, do you even _like_ him? Surely you don’t _love_ him?” The raven man’s eyes were wild, as disbelief and grief battled for dominance within their inky depths.

“I do not love Borra, Diaval. He wants me, and I can tolerate him. That is entirely the point. I allowed myself to love a man once, and he betrayed me. Mutilated me. I will not allow myself that vulnerability again.”

“Mistress…”

Maleficent held up a hand to silence him. “I loved Stefan, and he abused that love. He hurt me, and as a result, I then chose to do the unforgivable to an innocent. True love does not exist, but one can mate easily enough without it.”

Diaval stared at her incredulously. “You’re still tryin’ to punish yourself.”

“Punish myself? I am making a sensible choice based on what is best for the Dark Fey. Nothing more. Love is not necessary.” Maleficent replied firmly.

“Not necessary, sure. If you’re happy with never really _bein’_ happy. Goin’ through the motions and pretendin’ affection that you don’t really feel. Lettin’ someone touch you and… and _do things_ to you because they’re your mate and it’s expected, but not really wantin’ them to because you don’t like it. Lookin’ at your children and seein’ the face of someone that you chose because you felt they were suitable, not because you wanted to be with them.” 

Diaval paced back and forth like a caged lion, his black eyes tight with unspoken pain. He stopped and shook his head in anguish. When he spoke again, his voice was little more than a whisper.

“Matin’ without love would be settlin’ for less than you deserve. You _are_ loved, whether you feel you deserve it or not, and those who love you aren’t goin’ to stop just because you’re stubborn about it.”

How could she make him understand? Love could not be trusted. He knew her history, he had seen the terrible results of her first love, why could he not see that her choice was making the best of what was left, once love was taken from consideration? Maleficent inhaled sharply.

“Nonsense. After all that I have done? I do not need love, Diaval. Taking Borra as a mate would not require it, though he seems infatuated enough with me.”

“You keep tellin’ yourself that.” he snapped.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tell yourself whatever makes you feel better about making a stupid decision because you’re terrified of lettin’ yourself be in love. He wants you, but only because you’re absurdly beautiful and ridiculously powerful. You’re the _Phoenix_. It’s a feather in his cap if he has you as a mate. He wants you because of _what_ you are, not because of _who_. He doesn’t want you for _you_ – Maleficent. _Just_ Maleficent.”

“Diaval!”

“No, I’m right, and you know it. But why would you listen to a _servant_? Go ahead. Mate Borra. You go ahead and let him have you so that you can have a bunch of babies who don’t understand why their mother flinches when their father tries to preen her wings for her.” Diaval seethed.

“That’s enough.” Maleficent barked, her tone belying the subtle trembling of her lower lip.

He turned and locked his gaze upon her, unable to disguise the hurt in his eyes. “All I’m sayin’ is that if you were in an enchanted sleep, Borra couldn’t wake you. He _couldn’t_. And you know it. Are you really happy to settle for that because you’re afraid of the alternative? Afraid of lettin’ yourself love and be loved?” His eyes misted, and when he continued his voice was softer, though still tight with pain. “What you had with Stefan wasn’t true love, Mistress. He may have felt what he thought was love, and sure enough you loved him, but you were hardly more than children then. You didn’t know any better. But you’ve hidden your heart away for so long now that you still don’t know any better.”

He clenched his jaw and blinked away the tears which had gathered in his eyes, even as he held her wounded gaze. “You wouldn’t recognise true love if it were starin’ you in the face.”

Without waiting for a response, Diaval turned on his heel and wrenched the door open, stepped over the threshold and slammed it behind him. Maleficent could hear the angry crunching of his boots on the frosty ground as he stormed away.


	12. Chapter 12

Every breath hurt.

Aurora lay in the back of a wagon on a soft bed of pillows and blankets, her skull pounding, watching the lush leaves on the trees above her wave about in the breeze like crowds of well-wishers watching a parade.

It was an undignified way for a queen to travel, pulled along in a wobbly wagon, but Aurora was beyond caring about what the people of Ulstead would think of her when she arrived back in the kingdom this way. It was the quickest and easiest way for Phillip to get her back to the castle, considering that she was in no condition to ride a horse.

She moaned quietly, trying not to alert her husband, who was mounted on the stout horse that pulled the wagon along, to her discomfort. He had insisted that she return to Ulstead, to where she might have doctors and servants to care for her with modern medicines, and though it had pained her to leave the Moors, Aurora had realised that Phillip was right. She needed help.

Her chest was a scarlet map of raging infection, burning like fire as the illness ravaged her body, spreading further and causing more pain and damage by the day. An abscess had begun to develop in her left breast, and it would need to be lanced once they arrived at the castle. She swallowed hard at the thought, biting back the bile which rose in her throat at the prospect of rivers of pus bursting forth from a bloodied gash in her flesh.

Aurora’s fever had not abated and had now given rise to waking dreams which traumatised and frightened her, leaving her thrashing and crying out as her eyes saw nothing of the real world around her. Visions of her son, abandoned and starving, exposed to the elements and wailing desperately for her merged with thoughts of Maleficent and Diaval finding him far too late. The echo of her mother’s grieving howls, punctuated with bolts of iridescent lightning, followed her back into lucidity.

It couldn’t be true. None of it could be true. It was just the fever affecting her mind and bringing her unspoken fears to the fore. It wasn’t real, and it never would be, Aurora affirmed to herself in her increasingly brief moments of true clarity.

As she had grown sicker, Phillip had spearheaded the organisation of the defence of the Moors, though Aurora had insisted upon remaining involved as much as possible. From her sick bed, she had consulted with the Dark Fey to organise a defensive aerial squadron. Commanded by the formidable Ini and militarily arranged into a half-dozen five-Fey cells, they were already taking shifts throughout the day and night, patrolling the skies. The warlike Desert Fey were heavily represented in their ranks, though Fey from each of the four tribes had volunteered to protect their home.

Phillip had conferred with the Tree Guardians, dividing the Moors into three sections along the Perceforest and Ulstead borders, with a fourth section along the length of the nebulous divide between the fairy kingdom and the darker forest to the north. Each section was commanded by one of the more experienced Ents; Absalom led the forces along the northern border, with Barrow, Enoch and Balthazar deployed along the long section between the Moors and the two neighbouring kingdoms.

The Tree Guardians were able to communicate between themselves over great distances without requiring an intermediary, and so Phillip had largely left them to their own devices once he and Aurora had briefed them on the situation. They had spent centuries defending their homeland, and were likely far better at it without human intervention anyway. They were prepared for the possibility of an attack, and nothing more could be done until something actually happened.

With the Moors well placed and prepared for a reprisal from Wilfred’s kidnapper, Phillip had insisted on taking Aurora back to Ulstead, and by that point she had been far too ill to argue with him. The herbal medicines of the Moors had done little to stave off the infection, which was becoming worse by the day. Aurora was no fool; she could read the worry in her husband’s eyes and knew that she was very unwell indeed. She would accept whatever help was available to her, wherever that help happened to be, because Wilfred needed her healthy when he came home to her.

He needed her alive.

She forced herself to relax as the wagon rocked, biting back the wave of nausea which rose in response to the motion. She was cold, so very cold, but the back of her hand on her brow provided evidence enough that she was not actually cold at all. If anything, her temperature was rising again. 

A tiny moan escaped from between her dry, cracked lips as Aurora closed her eyes against the all too bright world. She rolled into the blankets, to the blessed darkness which eased the pain in her head, wishing that it were that simple to ease the pain within her heart as well.

She wanted her mother.

* * *

Diaval had forgotten his coat.

Maleficent snatched it from the stool by the door after she had doused the fire with one of her tiny localised thunderstorms. She held it for a moment, glaring at it as though it had personally offended her, even as her fingers fondled the jet-black feathers which lined it.

Indignant rage boiled in her veins, emerging as flickers of emerald from her fingertips. She struggled to contain her instinctive reflex to send a bolt after the raven man to change him into a pubic louse in retaliation. No, she refused to allow Diaval the satisfaction of allowing his words to affect her to that degree.

Truthfully, she had not anticipated the strength of his objection to her chosen course, and his arguments both enraged and bewildered her. They had stung, but only because she was unused to him being so forceful with his opinions, she told herself. They had only struck a nerve because he had never spoken to her thus before.

She refused to accept that his words may have contained a grain of truth.

Something not unlike grief festered like a consumptive mass within her chest, overwhelming her initial anger and threatening to force hopeless tears from her eyes. Maleficent sniffed loudly and blinked them away, annoyed at herself for her lack of control.

She had known that her decision would hurt Diaval. After two and a half decades together, it was only natural that sending him from her side would cause him pain. Not that she had even made it to that part of her explanation; emotions had escalated and he had walked out before she had gotten that far. Still, he was a clever bird, and he was more than capable of extrapolating that leaving her would be required of him were she to mate Borra. 

It hurt her to have to hurt him, though she recognised that it had to be done for his own sake. Borra would not stand for his presence, given the antagonism already in their relationship, and she could not ask her raven to put himself in any sort of danger.

He had no right to cast judgement upon her decisions. Did he truly believe that she had made such a life-altering choice without thinking it through? Borra as her mate was logical and sensible, and most crucially, she was not blinded by feelings of love for him.

It all came back to love. Diaval believed in it as vehemently as Maleficent disbelieved.

Perhaps, she contemplated, she should find him a nice she-raven to give him something else to think about instead of his objection to her mating Borra; a pretty bird who would preen his feathers until they shone and raise adorable little chicks with him.

Maleficent found her hackles rising at the thought of him lavishing attention on another female and barked a humourless laugh at her own selfishness. She was not jealous, of course. That would imply that she considered Diaval to be more than a companion, more than a friend, and that simply was not the case.

She enjoyed his company because he was _good_ company, kind and sweet and funny (not that she would ever deign to admit that to him, because he would never stop making terrible jokes if he thought that they amused her), and definitely nothing more than that.

She cared about him deeply, missed him when he was absent and worried for his safety, but that was only because he had been her friend for so many years. It was only natural that they would have an unshakable bond after two and a half decades together. 

If her body sometimes reacted to his presence, her heart beating faster when he drew close enough for her to be able to breathe in his scent, her skin begging to be caressed by long fingers and soft lips, that was hardly surprising either. He was rather attractive in his human form and she found it pleasing – but of course she did, she was a female of child-bearing age, and he was frequently a male of a related species. It was simply nature encouraging procreation, instinct becoming confused by proximity.

That was absolutely all it was.

She held the coat close to her face and breathed in. His scent lingered in the silky feathers which brushed against her cheek. It comforted her, even as it brought about a profound yearning within her that she could scarcely understand.

Stupid bird. Stupid, reckless, emotional, beautiful bird.

Stepping out of the hut door, Maleficent cast her eyes around the settlement, hoping that Diaval had not wandered beyond the poorly defined perimeter. Unfortunately, the raven man was nowhere to be seen, and the frost on the ground had already begun to melt in the weak morning sun, obscuring any footprints which he may have left.

She walked around for a few minutes, finding nothing, and had all but resolved to fly up and look for him when she heard Udo calling her from the largest hut. He was standing awkwardly in the doorway with a remorseful expression.

“Maleficent, we owe you an apology.” he began. Maleficent held up a hand to stop him.

“No, Udo. My situation as a child was not your fault. I had no right to lose my temper with you.” She felt very magnanimous indeed. Had Diaval not stormed off into the wilds, he would probably be shooting her a fiercely proud look at her benevolence. Stupid bird.

“We knew of the circumstances, though, and never shared that information with you. For that, we should apologise.” Udo replied.

Maleficent inclined her head and gave the Tundra Fey a tight smile. “I accept your apology.”

Udo smiled, then quickly scoured the settlement with unease in his eyes. “I hope that Diaval made it to you last night. I was concerned, given how quickly the storm increased in ferocity, that he may not.”

Maleficent bit her lip and exhaled audibly. “He did. He has… gone for a walk.” she said shortly, hoping that Udo would ask no further questions on the subject of her raven companion. She had no desire to explain the circumstances behind his sudden departure, the impassioned idiot.

“Good. I am pleased that he made it to you safely.”

“It was a foolish decision.” Maleficent refrained from expressing her own relief that Diaval had found her before he had frozen to death, because, she reminded herself sternly, she was cross with him and he therefore did not deserve her concern. Damnable creature.

“He would not have been stopped. You know that as well as I do. Seldom have I seen such devotion.” Udo shrugged, though his eyes bored into her knowingly. It made her uncomfortable.

“Hmph.” Maleficent huffed.

“Are we making a plan for the young prince’s rescue this morning?”

“Indeed. Are Shrike and Borra awake?”

Udo paused. There was something in his expression which made Maleficent nervous. “Shrike is awake,” he said, “However, Borra has not yet risen.” He stood aside as she made her way into the hut.

Shrike was sitting at the table again, gnawing on a carrot as though she had been starved for weeks. She gave Maleficent a little wave, humming a brief greeting through a mouthful of vegetable.

“Where is Borra?” Maleficent asked.

Shrike swallowed her carrot and grinned, pointing to the beds at the other end of the hut. “Over there. You might want to keep your voice down.”

“Excuse me?”

Udo came up behind Maleficent. “Shrike and Borra made a little discovery last night after you left.” he sighed.

“Mmm,” Shrike agreed, her grin growing wider, “Under the beds.” She held up a dirty ceramic flagon and waved it around by the handle.

“What is that?”

“At a guess, I would say it’s the local bootleg vintage. _Potent_ stuff. It makes Moorland springwine seem like water by comparison. Turns out our Borra is a bit of a lightweight, though.”

A muffled groan emerged from a bundle of blankets on one of the beds. “I should have known better than to go head-to-head with you, Shrike. Bloody Jungle Fey freaks.”

“Drank him under the table.” Shrike whispered conspiratorially to Maleficent. She swayed a little on her stool.

Borra groaned again as he rolled over beneath the blankets. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Don’t let us stop you. Lightweight!” Shrike shrugged, even as she snorted with glee.

“Outside, please.” Maleficent added with a grimace.

Borra tore from the bed and bolted out of the door, slamming it behind him.

Hoping to drown out the sounds of the Desert Fey retching in the dirt outside, Maleficent sat down opposite Shrike and beckoned to Udo to join them. “We cannot rescue Wilfred until this storm dies down completely. I am hoping that Diaval will come back soon, but perhaps making a plan which does not rely on his involvement might be prudent.” She kept her voice even.

Udo and Shrike exchanged a look.

“Did you have a fight?” Shrike asked. Maleficent was taken aback – generally, few were willing to be so direct with her, especially when asking personal questions.

“That is not important right now.” she replied curtly. She had absolutely no desire to explain what had happened that morning, especially as she was still trying to figure it all out herself.

Shrike eyeballed her sceptically. “Of course it’s important. What were you fighting about?” She peered at Maleficent as though trying to read her thoughts. “Lovers’ tiff? Was he hogging the bed? Wasn’t keen to let you tie him up? Odd, he seems as though he would be into that.”

Maleficent froze, staring in bewilderment at Shrike, even as she felt the uncomfortable burn of embarrassment creeping up the back of her neck. “What?” Lovers’ tiff? _Tied up?_

She ignored the tingle in her loins at the sudden thought of Diaval restrained and begging and entirely at her mercy, his black eyes blown wide and pleading as he gasped in pleasure, and forcibly redirected her energy into glaring at Shrike for her boldness instead.

“Are you still inebriated?” Maleficent asked, arching her eyebrow suspiciously. There was a certain shininess to Shrike’s eyes, and she seemed somewhat less collected than usual. It was not impossible, especially if the spirits that she and Borra had imbibed were as strong as she claimed.

Shrike laughed. “Maybe a little. Tipsy or not, I still want to know what you were fighting about.” She leaned forward and waggled her eyebrows at Maleficent. “Go on then. Tell me everything.”

“We have differing opinions on a particular subject, and despite your assumptions, he is _not_ my lover. That is all I am willing to disclose.”

Shrike sat up in astonishment. “Really? He’s not? You could have fooled me. Why _not_? He’s _delicious_ , Maleficent!”

Oh yes, Shrike was definitely still drunk, Maleficent thought.

The Jungle Fey leaned purposefully over the table and whispered to her, “And I reckon he’s hung like a-“

“All right, that is _quite_ enough! We have a prince to rescue. Please focus, Shrike.” Maleficent interrupted loudly, slapping her hands on the table for emphasis as heat rose in her face. She hoped that it was less visible than it felt.

“I wish you every luck in the world with that, Maleficent, but in reality, I suspect that you and I will be planning this mission alone.” Udo remarked.

“I suspect that you’re right. I should probably go and make sure that Borra is still breathing before we begin.” He had fallen suspiciously silent, and though most likely curled up in heap in the dirt feeling sorry for himself, checking on him was probably advisable. Maleficent stood up from the table and made for the hut door.

“Is Diaval coming back?” Shrike asked with sudden seriousness.

Maleficent stopped and turned to face her. She forced herself to smile – unsuccessfully, if Shrike’s unconscious flinch was any indication, still too much fang – and replied, “I expect he will be back shortly. He would never abandon Wilfred or let Aurora down.” Regardless of his feelings toward her, irrespective of how angry or hurt he may be because of her choices, his devotion to his family was something which could always be counted upon.

She hoped with every fibre of her being that it was true.

* * *

Diaval walked quickly northward through the frigid, swirling dust without considering a destination; he needed to get away, and he could think about little else as his emotions heaved and twisted like the stabbing of knives within his heart.

She had no idea how much she had hurt him.

Maleficent sought to protect herself from harm, to keep from suffering as she had once suffered. Stefan had taken more from her than simply her wings. In slicing them from her back with chains of cold iron, he had taken her trust, her innocence, and her belief that good could exist in the world. She had trusted him implicitly, loved him deeply, and he had nearly destroyed her. It was only her inner strength which had saved her from falling completely into wretched hopelessness.

She had seen herself as a young woman in Aurora – sweet, naïve and trusting – and she had feared for the girl. Despite witnessing with her own two eyes that love had only enriched Aurora’s life, Maleficent somehow could not – _would_ not – consider such a possibility for herself. Though her wings had been returned to her, though she had found that love still existed, she was a changed woman, jaded and distrustful. Within her deepest self, Maleficent continued to fear another betrayal, and she was willing to allow that fear to control her life.

He respected her right to choose for herself – he had no claim to her, regardless of the length of their relationship or the depth of his love for her, after all – but the prospect of her throwing her chance of true happiness away on someone like _Borra_ was agony. Particularly considering the reasoning behind her decision.

Diaval exhaled shakily and shivered as he wiped treacherous moisture from his eyes. Why couldn’t she see what was right in front of her? Did she not _want_ to see? The trinkets in her nest – indeed, the nest itself, as he had painstakingly rebuilt it to her exacting specifications. The baskets of food, the careful preening of her feathers, the way in which he would show off his skills when they flew together. He had demonstrated all of the courting behaviours of his kind, and yet she did not seem to see what he was trying to say.

How many ways could he tell her that he loved her before she realised that he was saying it?

How did the Dark Fey say it? Or did her kind simply… _say it_ – lay themselves bare and vulnerable and hope for acceptance?

He couldn’t help the images assailing him as he trudged through the barren wasteland. Maleficent in Borra’s arms, compelling herself to relax into his embrace. His fingers buried in the silken feathers of her wings as she steeled herself from shuddering at the contact. The quiet acceptance upon her face as he covered her body with his own and ground into her, forcing his seed into her womb. A means to an end, to be endured for the sake of an ideal mating and the continuation of her endangered line.

Cold wind assaulted him, seemingly from every direction, and the sky above churned and rolled with heavy grey clouds. Supposedly it was summer, but the north of Nyrsta Vígi apparently did not believe in such things. Diaval could feel tiny shards of ice biting into his skin as he tramped on. Small enough to have melted before he was even aware of them, but still sharp enough to slice painfully into his skin. 

The idea of Maleficent sharing her life with Borra was even more excruciating.

The landscape rolled out before him, a sea of monotonous earth and low shrubs but for the high mountains in the near distance. Above, the clouds loomed large, grey and unforgiving, though they began to dissipate to the east, promising a change in the weather. Diaval plodded on, not yet brave enough to turn back and face the reality of the woman he loved mating another.

Why _Borra_? 

Though their own relationship was nebulous in definition, he and Maleficent shared the closeness of mates. For twenty-three years, they had seldom spent a day apart, and at times almost seemed to know what the other was thinking. They were the best of friends. They had raised a child together, and now shared a grandson. He knew that she cared for him, as he cared for her. They were each other’s constants.

But for Diaval, though, it had long been something more. His raven nature shaped his instincts, his feelings and his behaviours, regardless of the form that he wore. He had imprinted upon Maleficent many years before, his heart recognising her as his mate even though their relationship had never once involved actual mating. He loved her. With every beat of his heart, every fibre of his being, every breath in his lungs, he loved her. He needed her as he needed air to breath. The idea of losing her to the arms of another felt like dying.

The tears were flowing freely now.

He would rather have nothing change between them until the end of time than stand by and watch her with another man. Forced from her side by one who could not give her all that _he_ gave her, all that he was willing to give her.

Diaval could not lie to himself – he craved more than what they had. As much as it hurt him to contemplate Maleficent allowing Borra to have her in that way, it hurt all the more to know that she would not consider _him_. As much as he scolded himself for such a feeling of entitlement over one far greater than he would ever be, he could not help his own feelings. He loved her. He needed her presence as a flower needs the light of the sun.

He would give her anything she wanted. _Anything_. 

If she was mating for the sake of having a child, then he would gladly give her that – a double handful of them, if that was what she wanted. Not just gladly, but willingly. Passionately, and without reservation. He would ensure that it was not a chore, a duty to be merely endured for the sake of starting little ones, but a union of something beautiful and remarkable. A salvific, of sorts; a joining of souls as well as of bodies, their love a physical and tangible creature of their own making.

He could not deny them, the instinctive urges that he felt within this human body of his; the intense desire to find all the ways in which he could pleasure and satisfy her, the soul-deep yearning to take her in his arms and _love_ her as completely as she deserved to be loved.

Because she deserved it. Gods above, she deserved to be loved more than any being he had ever encountered in all of his long life. After all that she had been through, she deserved _happiness_.

He wanted to be the one to make her happy. He wanted to love her – to be _allowed_ to love her. He wanted her to believe in true love once again.

But he couldn’t. She would never allow herself to see him as anything more than a former servant, a devoted companion, a loyal friend. He could never be good enough to be something more to her.

Or…?

Diaval slowed, his boots scraping indistinct shapes into the dirt, as a sudden thought occurred to him, as agonising if it had been wrenched from the depths of his soul. Perhaps it _wasn’t_ that he was not enough for her at all. Perhaps it was something far more complicated, far more painful, than that.

He sobbed, covering his mouth with his hand at the might of the realisation; a punch to the solar plexus in its enormity.

Was it that he was too _much_ – too close, too knowing? She had few secrets from him, after all. He was the only one besides Aurora that Maleficent could bear to have touch her. She let him preen her wings. Such an act was extremely intimate, and yet she not only permitted it, she frequently requested it, closing her eyes in delight as his deft fingers caressed her velvety plumage.

She was afraid of love, and she knew that he loved her desperately. There was no way that she could not, somewhere within the depths of her consciousness, be aware of his feelings. He had never forced them upon her, but neither had he hidden them away.

Diaval stopped. Of course. It all made sense. Maleficent was afraid of allowing herself to love, and so she was choosing one who she could not imagine herself falling for. Choosing Borra as a supposedly safer option over…

Over Diaval.

“Why?” he moaned to the overcast sky. “Surely she knows I’d die before I’d hurt her?”

He would do anything for her. She had to know that. He had cared for her for decades and had never once given her reason to distrust him.

Even so, it hit him like a thunderclap. Hot tears made clear tracks through the dusting of dirt upon his cheeks and another desperate sob wrenched from his throat as understanding overwhelmed him – far from choosing Borra over Diaval, she had chosen him because he was _not_ Diaval. Not the one who loved her.

 _Not the one she loved_.

She was protecting herself from _him_.

* * *

Diaval had trudged for miles through the dreary terrain, far enough that the settlement had disappeared into the distance behind him. The sun had risen well into the sky, though it cast little warmth through the persistent layer of thin, high cloud above. The heavy clouds which had threatened above him earlier had blown away to the west, and the remaining wind from the storm the night before had all but died down, though, and so he was almost comfortable despite having forgotten his coat.

He could see a herd of horses about a mile to the west, blurry brown shapes which stood out against the repetitive dullness of the landscape. They milled about calmly, grazing on the low shrubs and occasionally whinnying to each other. It was a shame that he lacked the ability to change his own form – had he been able to turn himself into a horse, he might have joined them for a while, just for the sake of it.

He had spent the better part of the previous two hours arguing with himself, alternating between fantasies involving loudly declaring his undying love and begging Maleficent to be his mate on bended knee (he suspected that this would be unwise, as the embarrassment alone would likely result in his being changed into something revolting), and bowing out gracefully by wishing Maleficent well, then quietly drowning himself so that he was spared the heartache of standing by and watching as the love of his life chose another.

Eventually, though, common sense won out. Neither extreme was appropriate – throwing himself at her would only scare her away, which he absolutely did not want, and offing himself would most likely send Maleficent into another dark downward spiral, only this time without him to help her through the worst of it. He wouldn’t do that to her, to Aurora, to the Moors. His own pain paled in comparison to the pain which such a choice would inflict upon those he loved.

Diaval knew Maleficent almost better than she knew herself, though, and he knew that once she had set herself on a particular course of action, she could seldom be dissuaded. The only way that she would decide against taking Borra as a mate was if _she_ convinced _herself_ that it was the wrong choice – the more that Diaval tried to reason with her, the more that she would dig her heels in, the stubborn sióg. The last thing he wanted was for her to banish him entirely, send him away and insist that he never return.

No, what he needed to do, though it pained him to contemplate it, was _support_ her. He loved her. Maleficent taking another as a mate was never going to change that. If that was what she intended to do, then he had no other choice but to stand by her through it if he still wanted to be a part of her life. He had made his feelings known, and she was likely still seething because of it, but he would not continue to push her. It would do no good at this point.

One day, he knew, it would all fall apart. Maleficent and Borra’s personalities were fundamentally incompatible – both too hotheaded, too impulsive – and one day their relationship _would_ end. Diaval could see it as clear as day, even if his Mistress was blind to it. One day, when she once again stood alone in the world, he would return to her side. He would be there to help her through her rage and her grief as he had done so many times in the past. He would help her to raise her children, little half-Forest-half-Desert Fey beings who would no doubt question their place in the world because of their dual heritage, and he would teach them everything that he knew about being that little bit different from everyone around them.

He may never be able to act upon his feelings for her, but he would never stop telling her that he loved her in a thousand unspoken ways, hoping for the bright and beautiful day when she would finally _understand_.

Diaval stopped, clenching his fists and turning his face to the sky. “I swear, Mistress, that I will never abandon you.” he whispered. “So long as I draw breath, I am yours.”

The sun broke through the patchy cloud and shone down warmly upon him as though a sign from the heavens themselves. Diaval laughed – perhaps his intentions were divinely sanctified, not that ravens _had_ proper gods, mind you – and threw his hands up as high as he could, shouting, “I love you, Maleficent! And no langer gobshite with feathers in shreds will ever change that! Ha!”

The horses bolted at the unexpected sound of his voice, stampeding further to the west in a cloud of reddish dust. “Sorry!” Diaval called after them.

“What did you do that for?” came an irritated voice from behind him. 

Diaval all but jumped out of his skin.

“Awkcawwak!” he screeched, whirling around to the source of the voice.

Standing there as though he had fallen from the heavens with the sunlight just moments earlier, his arms folded over his scrawny chest and a decidedly annoyed expression upon his grubby face, was Ekkert. 

Diaval blinked in surprise. “Ekkert!”

“What does that mean?” the boy asked, evidently completely unconcerned by Diaval’s unexplained presence in the middle of his homeland. “Awkcawwak?”

“Uh…” Diaval hesitated. It was a particularly vulgar raven curse word which intimated certain things about the receiver’s mother, but he had no desire to share that information with Ekkert. Instead, he tried to change the subject. “Ekkert! Where did you come from? You just appeared out of nowhere.”

The lad smiled. “I told you I was quiet. I was trying to catch another mare. You scared them when you shouted. Who is Maleficent?”

Diaval felt himself blush. “You heard that, did you?”

“You _shouted_ it.” Ekkert said, moving his hands to his hips. He suddenly frowned in realisation. “Why are you in Nyrsta Vígi? You don’t live here.”

Diaval paused for a moment, contemplating just how much he could disclose and how much would have to be a little white lie, before deciding that this was a situation which could be used to great advantage. The boy was privy to the goings-on at Járnahöll, and might be able to provide some inside information which would help in recovering Wilfred. He smiled his friendliest smile.

“Ekkert, I’m very good friends with Queen Aurora. Do you remember her from Ulstead? She misses her little baby very much, and so my friends and I have come lookin’ for him. Maybe you can help us. Do you happen to know where the baby prince, little Wilfred is?”

Ekkert grinned. “Yes.”

“Okay…” Diaval said slowly, smiling encouragingly at the boy, “That’s _great_. Can you _tell_ me where he is?”

“Yes.”

Several seconds went by. Ekkert grinned cheerfully.

“Where is Wilfred, Ekkert?” Diaval asked, finally realising that the lad needed him to be completely clear and direct to avoid confusion.

“In the castle with Vætki.”

“Vætki – your sister? She’s carin’ for him?”

“Oh yes. The Master said that he was to be looked after.” Ekkert stated firmly, nodding his scruffy head for emphasis.

“Does your Master know that you’re out here?” asked Diaval, cocking his head curiously, a vague plan beginning to form in his mind.

“No. I snuck out.” Ekkert grinned, running his hand through his windblown mop of hair.

Excellent, thought Diaval. “How?”

“How what?” the lad blinked stupidly.

“How did you sneak out of the castle?” Diaval replied, forcing himself to be patient. It wasn’t Ekkert’s fault that he was as thick as the Rowan Tree in the Fairy Mound.

“Through the tunnels.”

Tunnels? There were tunnels? “What tunnels?”

“The tunnels under the castle. There are three of them. East, west and south. Escape tunnels from long ago. I came through the south tunnel today. It comes out over there.” Ekkert pointed to a small depression in the dirt some twenty feet away. Had the boy not identified it, Diaval doubted that he would ever have noticed that it was there.

He raised an eyebrow and looked at Ekkert. The boy mirrored his expression, unaware of the flurry of ideas which whirled through Diaval’s mind at the revelation of an alternative method of entering the castle. A potentially _secretive_ method.

“Tunnels into the castle, eh? So Ekkert,” Diaval said, putting an arm around the lad’s skinny shoulders in a brotherly sort of way and guiding him around so that they faced southward, back the way that Diaval had come, “How would you feel about comin’ for a bit of a walk with me?”

* * *

Maleficent refrained from banging her head on the rickety table, though only barely.

Borra had recovered somewhat after emptying his stomach earlier that morning, and now lounged casually beside her on the stool nearest the wall. He leaned back against the stones, making no secret of the fact that he was watching her closely and rather liked what he saw. He kept finding excuses to come into contact with her – the touch of a hand here, the brush of a wing there – and although Maleficent figured that she should probably encourage his behaviour as a future mate, if she was to be honest with herself, she really wished that he would knock it off and focus on the problem of extracting Wilfred alive.

It had nothing to do with anything that Diaval had said earlier, of course. She just needed everyone to be concentrating properly on the reason for being in Nyrsta Vígi in the first place. Wilfred was the priority, and mindless groping could wait until everyone was safely back home again. She had expressed none of her future intentions toward the Desert Fey yet for exactly that reason.

Borra started playing with her primaries, twirling them around his fingers. She shook her wings irritably and glared at him, even as he responded with what she assumed was supposed to be a seductive look. “Are you going to be in any condition to accomplish your part of this mission?” she hissed.

The Desert Fey smirked and leaned back against the wall, folding his arms against his brawny chest. “Sure I am.”

Shrike was sitting opposite Borra, holding her head in her hand and looking somewhat the worse for wear as the alcohol finally made its way out of her system. “You’re in charge of wanton destruction. I’m jealous.”

“Removing the wall as an obstacle is not ‘wanton destruction’.” Maleficent replied.

“It will be with Borra doing it.” Shrike snorted.

Maleficent raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards. The Jungle Fey was probably right. She could imagine blocks of stone flying in every direction as Borra laughed his head off in mischievous amusement.

“Regardless, the wall needs to go in the event that Diaval is the one retrieving the baby, assuming that the rest of us are engaged in distracting the Warlock and his servants.”

“If he comes back.” Borra sneered. “He might have started walking back to the Moors. He’s been gone for hours, it’s possible.”

“He will come back.” Maleficent replied decidedly, although privately she was far less assured of that fact than she pretended to be. Diaval had, after all, been extremely upset.

No, there was absolutely no way that a bird as devoted to Aurora as Diaval was would let the young queen down when she needed him the most. He would put his anger with Maleficent aside for his daughter’s sake.

“Ideally, we need to draw the Warlock away from the castle entirely.” Udo commented from the fireplace, where he was steeping a handful of wild mint in an earthenware jug to make tea. Maleficent had found it growing in abundance behind their hut when she had checked on a vomiting Borra earlier.

“Ideally, yes, but what would draw him out?” Maleficent asked.

“You. Do you remember when you attacked Ulstead?” Borra said, licking his lips suggestively, no doubt at the recollection of what she had been wearing at the time, “Do that. Murderous green magic blowing things up all over. If anything gets the Warlock out of his castle, that should do it.”

Maleficent stared at him cynically. “I was enraged beyond _bearing_ , Borra. I had just watched Conall die a slow, painful death, and the humans were trying to kill us all, Fey and Moorfolk alike. I was not in control of myself. If not for Aurora…” she trailed off. If not for Aurora talking her down up there on the top of the tower, she could only imagine the sort of destruction that her anger would have wrought.

“I’m sure you can muster that sort of rage again. Think of your bird and his smart mouth, that should do the job.” the Desert Fey snarked.

Maleficent hissed at him, sending a stinging hex in his direction. Though she was still upset with Diaval for his words that morning, he was _her_ raven, and she would not stand for anyone else insulting him. That was _her_ privilege.

Borra laughed, even as he rubbed at the spot on his chest where her magic had struck him. “That’s it right there. Send a bit of that the Warlock’s way.” he mocked.

“Borra.” Udo said in a warning tone as he returned to the table with the steaming jug of mint tea wrapped in a cloth. In the absence of cups, he took a sip straight from it, then offered it to Shrike.

Borra sneered at Udo. “I’m only teasing. Maleficent can take a joke, can’t you Maleficent?” He clapped a calloused hand on her shoulder for emphasis, catching her off guard and startling her; his reward was another, stronger, stinging spell which doubled him over.

“Now, now, children…” chided Shrike wearily.

Though Borra whimpered and wheezed, bent at the waist, his eyes were bright with excitement, betraying a certain masochistic delight in Maleficent’s actions.

Udo suddenly looked up. “I hear something.”

Footsteps. There were footsteps approaching the hut. Maleficent breathed a sigh of relief that Diaval had finally returned.

Before she could say anything, though, she realised that she could hear a _second_ set of footsteps, fainter than the first though a quicker step, and stood in alarm. Diaval only had two feet. In his present form, anyway.

“It is the raven?” Borra asked. “Who is the other?”

Defensive magic began to crackle around her fingertips, lighting the walls of the hut with a soft green glow. Slowly, Maleficent moved toward the narrow door, bracing herself for an attack – there was a chance that it could be the Warlock, considering their location, and she had to be prepared.

The door handle turned, and the door creaked open. Maleficent raised her hands in readiness, moving around so that she might have a clear shot.

She let out a breath that she did not know she had been holding at the sight of mussed black hair and a familiar beaky nose.

“Diaval.” she breathed in relief, lowering her hands again and pulling the magic back into herself. 

He was safe. He had returned to her.

“Mistress.” he replied softly, meeting her gaze. Something passed between them in that moment – an apology, or perhaps a truce – and Maleficent offered her raven the tiniest of smiles. Once they were alone and had the time and emotional reserves to discuss what had happened, they would talk.

They needed to talk.

“I am glad to see you back.” Maleficent confessed. “Where have you been?”

Diaval’s face reflexively pinched into a grimace of pain for the briefest of seconds before he adopted a more neutral expression. “I went for a walk. Just out in the desert a way. I had to do some thinkin’.” he replied carefully, looking away from his Mistress’ mesmeric eyes to fix upon a spot in the air just behind her right wing. 

It pained Maleficent that Diaval could not bring himself to look at her for more than a few brief moments. She desperately wanted to be angry with him, to make him suffer the depths of her fury at his brazen reaction to her revelation that morning, but found that her rage was dissipating like mist in the morning sun.

Diaval was smiling humourlessly. “Turned out to be a useful walk, though.” he said with a brief twitch of his eyebrow. He steered another person – short, dirty and malnourished-looking – into the hut. “Look who I found.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: archive warnings apply to this chapter, specifically those pertaining to descriptions of physical abuse, corpses and mentions of rape.

“Hello.” Ekkert said brightly, grinning broadly at them through the doorway. “You _all_ have wings.” He trotted over to Udo and started poking at the Tundra Fey’s pale feathers in fascination. “You’re a man. A bird. A man-bird. A bird-man. Tweet tweet!”

“Where on Earth did you find him?” Maleficent whispered to Diaval, though she suspected that Ekkert was paying little enough attention to her that her usual volume would have been fine.

“He was just wanderin’ out in the desert. Well, not wanderin’ exactly, he was after the herd of horses, but I was walkin’ along and he just sort of popped up out of nowhere. I don’t even think he quite realizes that he’s technically been captured.”

“You weren’t walking. You were shouting at the sky.” Ekkert contradicted without turning around. He was listening after all.

Diaval flushed. “I _had_ been walkin’.”

Ekkert plopped himself down on Maleficent’s stool. “You shouted. You scared away the horses.”

“Is the baby in the castle?” asked Udo.

“Yes. Vætki has him. He’s cute. He laughs when I tickle his toes.”

“You and she took him after the christening.” Shrike said seriously, frowning at the boy. He had begun tapping a rhythm on his knees with his open palms.

“The Master told us to take him. He needs the baby. That baby. Another baby wouldn’t do. He has a _plan_.”

“What is the plan?” Borra rumbled, baring his teeth. The boy was oblivious to the implied threat. Whether he was accustomed to being threatened and was no longer concerned by it, or simply unable to read the Desert Fey’s expression, was an open question.

Ekkert grinned. “I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me things. He says I talk too much to be trusted. I think he told Vætki. You should ask her.” He swung his legs playfully on the stool, humming tunelessly to himself.

“What can you tell us about the Warlock?” Maleficent asked.

Big brown eyes regarded her blankly.

Diaval leaned over and muttered, “You need to be really clear and direct, Mistress. He doesn’t understand anythin’ else.”

Maleficent nodded curtly and tried again. “Ekkert, what does the Warlock look like?” It seemed a reasonably innocuous place to start, to build the boy’s confidence and trust for more delicate questioning later on.

His eyes lit up. “He is taller than me.”

“And?”

“His hair is light. Not like yours,” Ekkert said, looking at Udo, “More yellow. Like the baby’s hair.” He paused for a moment. “His eyes are like yours, though. Blue.”

“Any wings?” Diaval asked.

“No wings. Just arms and legs. His back is hunched over, like this.” Ekkert curled forward to demonstrate. “He has a big lump on his back.”

Maleficent raised an eyebrow. Was the Warlock crippled? Perhaps, but crippled or not, it would matter little if he were able to harness any kind of sorcery. “Ekkert,” she said carefully, keeping her voice as low and gentle and nonthreatening as she could muster, “Does your Master have magic?”

“Magic?”

“Yes, magic. Like this.” She held up a hand, creating a little whirlwind of golden flames on her palm. Ekkert’s eyes all but popped from his head.

“He doesn’t make fire with his hands. He blows things up. He makes lightning. And wind. He made the storm last night.”

“The Warlock did that?” Atmokinesis was an unusual gift, Maleficent mused. She herself could conjure localised weather events and influence the environment of the Moors by her moods, but to the best of her knowledge she was the only one with the ability among the Dark Fey.

Ekkert nodded. “He was angry. It always gets cold and windy when he gets angry. But he went to Vætki and he stopped being angry.”

Maleficent frowned, noting that Shrike was shifting uncomfortably on her stool. She did not want to draw the conclusion that she had automatically drawn at Ekkert’s words, but apparently the Jungle Fey had reached the same understanding.

“The lightning hurts.” Ekkert continued. He bit his lower lip and dropped his eyes to the hard-packed dirt floor as though ashamed to confess such a thing.

Diaval knelt before the boy and gazed intently at him, trying to draw his focus. Ekkert imitated Diaval’s intensity and stared straight back at him.

“Ekkert, did the Warlock hit you with the lightning?” the raven man asked gently, the natural rasp of his voice low and soothing; comforting, even to a near-stranger.

The lad paused, chewing on his lip, then nodded briefly. “The lightning. And the sticks. The belts. More the sticks and belts, now. The lightning hurts my head. Inside my head. Vætki begged the Master to stop. She thought he would kill me. I don’t really remember it, except for the pain.” He ran his fingers along the lower hem of his tunic before lifting it over his head, sending his unruly mop of dark hair into complete disarray. Standing there before them wearing nothing but a pair of baggy brown drawstring pants, he was a truly pathetic sight.

Maleficent held a hand over her mouth at the state of the boy. Half-starved, she could count each and every rib in his skinny chest. His arms were barely the width of her wrists. His malnourishment was not the worst of it, however.

Ekkert gestured to his body, turning around so that they might see both back and front. “I have a lot of scars. Kind of like you.” he said, smiling at Diaval as though the deep markings on their bodies were some sort of filial bond.

Diaval shook his head, his lips drawn into a tight line. “Mine came from my youth and my own silliness. He _beats_ you.” he quavered.

Ekkert shrugged. “He gets angry.”

‘Angry’ seemed to Maleficent to be something of an understatement. Ekkert’s skin was littered with scars, some long faded to white, whilst others were the angry red welts of fresh wounds. They covered his body, front and back. Several were still crusted over with dried blood.

Whilst most of the marks which crisscrossed the boy’s back were the long stripes one would associate with being struck by sticks and belts, Maleficent quickly realised that the oldest of the scars were a different shape to the rest. The deepest and earliest marks, the ones over which all of the rest overlapped, branched out all across Ekkert’s body like the silhouettes of trees.

Lightning scars. The boy had been tortured with magic.

She trembled as her own magic rose in response to her violent outrage, trying desperately to keep it in check even as green flames began to lick about her hands. Ekkert was a child, and a vulnerable child at that, simple as he was. What sort of dreadful creature tortured a child?

Kidnapped a child?

Was Wilfred in danger of this torture too?

The earthenware jug on the table exploded without warning, sending Udo and Shrike leaping back in shock as shards of pottery flew toward their faces. Hot mint tea flooded the table and dripped down to muddy the floor below.

Maleficent squeezed her eyes closed and compelled herself to bring the eddies of green fury under control. She concentrated on calming herself, pulling her magic back to her and forcing it, swirling and cascading, to where it might be contained.

Panting with the effort, she opened her eyes to see Diaval watching her. He said nothing, but his eyes reflected his pride and approval.

“Ha,” Ekkert giggled, “The jug went bang.” He watched the tea slowly dripping onto the floor with disturbing intensity.

Diaval stood and took the boy’s tunic, carefully pulling it back over his head and hiding the myriad of scars on his body once more. He tugged the fabric down until it sat comfortably. “There now. It’s too cold to be goin’ around half-dressed.” His voice was gentle, the natural rasp low and comforting, and Maleficent could already see the implicit trust which the raven man inspired reflected in the lad’s eyes.

Perhaps she had been too hasty in dismissing the idea of finding him a mate. If any creature deserved to be a father, as intrinsically nurturing and caring as he was, it was Diaval. 

He turned to her, his deep, dark eyes soft and beseeching. The knowledge of the universe existed within that gentle blackness; he saw, and he understood. It was his gift, certainly, and a gift which he bestowed freely upon all those whom he encountered. He had taken but a single look at this boy and had seen the truth of his soul.

“We can’t leave him to such a fate, Mistress.” Diaval said quietly. “This Warlock beatin’ the livin’ daylights out of him until he thinks it’s _normal_ – we have to take him back with us. He’s only a child.”

Maleficent turned from the quiet vehemence of his gaze. “And what would you suggest we do with him then?”

“Aurora would give him a job in the stables, he’d like that.” Diaval replied. There was a decisiveness in his tone which made Maleficent look back at him. His expression was firm, but compassion softened the lines of his face. “I’m not leavin’ him here to be beaten bloody. Even if I have to walk him back to the Moors myself.”

It was the raven man’s nature to adopt the strays of the world, she supposed.

“You will not have to do that.” she replied softly, “He will return to Ulstead with us. And his sister, if she chooses to come.”

Diaval inclined his head, his eyes never leaving her own. “Thank you, Mistress.”

She could not deny him his kindness.

Turning to Ekkert, Diaval took the boy’s hands to draw his wandering attention back. “Ekkert, will you tell everyone else what you told me out there when you found me? About the tunnels into the castle?”

“Tunnels?” Maleficent asked, her attention having returned to the problem of rescuing the prince, “There are tunnels?”

“Yes. Three of them.” Ekkert replied cheerfully. “I came through the south one today. It’s the easiest.”

Forgetting herself, Maleficent knelt beside Diaval and fixed the boy with her impenetrable gaze. “Where do the tunnels lead?”

Ekkert eyed her seriously. “Into the castle. Into the _dungeon_.”

“Does the Warlock know about the tunnels?”

“The Master? No. I use them to sneak out and find the horses.”

Maleficent and Diaval exchanged a look. “Perhaps we could use these tunnels to sneak in and secure Wilfred before engaging with the Warlock? I would feel rather better about a potentially dangerous battle if I knew that the baby was out of harm’s way.” Maleficent said.

“Absolutely.” Diaval replied. He eyed her cautiously, tilting his head in his endearingly birdlike way. “Were you plannin’ on a dangerous battle, then? How much _did_ I miss this mornin’?”

Maleficent rolled her eyes and returned her attention to Ekkert, who was watching their exchange curiously. “Can you show us the way through the tunnels?”

Ekkert shook his head vigorously. “No. But I’ll show _him_.” he said, pointing at Diaval. He laughed at Maleficent’s offended expression. “You won’t fit in the tunnels. Your wings are too big. They would get in the way.”

“Oh. I suppose that makes sense.” she replied tersely, arching an eyebrow as she turned to Diaval with a sardonic smile. “Well well. You get to be the hero in this adventure by _default_ , Diaval. Aren’t you excited?”

“Your sarcasm wounds me, Mistress. I’m _wounded_.”

“Only your pride, vain bird.”

“Wounded pride is a terribly tragedy, you know.”

“No doubt the humans will compose great sonnets about the tragedy of your wounded pride someday.”

Ekkert slid off the stool and moved in far too close to them, peering as though trying to focus his eyes properly. “Are you two married?”

“What?”

“No.”

The boy squinted at them in turn for several moments before replying, “Are you _sure_?”

* * *

The hole in the ground was _tiny_.

Diaval stared down at it in trepidation, once again wishing that he had the power to change himself. He could traverse the tunnel in the form of a mouse or a fox, and then turn himself human again once he reached the other side.

Unfortunately, he could do no such thing, and with Maleficent intending to fly to the mountains and wait for his signal from within the castle before mounting an assault, there was no easy way for her to do it for him. Whether he liked it or not, he was going through the tunnel in his human shape.

“Are you all right to do this?” he heard his Mistress ask softly in his ear. He was grateful to her for her discretion in front of Ekkert and the other Dark Fey.

Diaval nodded, though he swallowed hard. “Sure, Mistress. It’s the best plan for gettin’ Wilfred out of there. I’ll be fine.” Fine. Yes. Perfectly fine. Perfectly fine, crawling on his belly in a narrow tunnel beneath the earth in pitch darkness for over a mile. Fine, fine, fine.

He ignored the clenching feeling in his chest.

The noon sun hung overhead as they stood there in the great expanse of the permafrost desert, absent of life but for the shrubs. Even the horses had disappeared, much to Ekkert’s vocal irritation. It was only Diaval’s promise of many beautiful horses to care for once they had returned to Ulstead which had calmed the boy.

Ekkert was grinning. “Come on.” He sat on the edge of the hole and dropped down. The depth was such that only his head and shoulders remained visible, and Diaval realised that the boy would have had trouble climbing out of it until fairly recently. 

The lad waved a quick farewell to the Dark Fey, paying special attention to Maleficent, who he seemed to have taken rather a shine to. He crouched and disappeared into the inky maw of the tunnel. “Come on!” his voice echoed from within.

Diaval grimaced and eased himself into the hole. Taller than Ekkert by a considerable margin, he would have to crouch down until his tunic all but brushed against the floor of the tunnel. He chewed his lower lip nervously.

“Diaval?” Maleficent asked.

“S’all right, Mistress. I’m goin’. I’ll see you at the castle – light from the top of the tower once we have Wilfred, right?” he replied, hoping that she would not pick up on the strain in his voice. He could feel perspiration beginning to bead upon his brow already.

“Yes. We will wait for your signal.” Maleficent replied. She leaned down and touched the raven man’s cheek. “Be safe. Be careful.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Diaval replied softly. “And you too.” He smiled encouragingly at her, then lowered himself down to the narrow tunnel mouth. It smelled of soil and ice combined, the permafrost aiding in keeping the structure intact in the time since it had been bored into the earth. The frigid darkness within was endless; a pit of gloom and nothingness which stretched on into eternity.

Diaval scolded himself for being ridiculous. He was doing this for Wilfred. He was doing this for Aurora. He could – he would – do whatever was necessary for those he loved, even if it terrified him.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself forwards into the suffocating blackness.

The tunnel swallowed up the bright sunshine. Diaval choked back an involuntary whimper and compelled his limbs to cooperate, dragging himself further into the earth. As dark as it was, he squeezed his eyes closed and knew no difference; he was blind to his surroundings regardless.

The icy dirt on the floor of the tunnel scraped at his hands and knees, which were rapidly numbing from the cold, and his head brushed repeatedly against the roof. The air itself was frigid, but clammy at the same time. Diaval shivered. He felt as though he might never be completely warm or entirely dry ever again.

It felt wrong – so, _so_ wrong. Ravens were not burrowing creatures. A raven had no business being underground, especially in such a confined place. It was unnatural. He felt trapped. Every primal instinct of every creature that he had ever worn the shape of screamed at him to _get out_ , but there was no way for him to follow those instincts, even as they overwhelmed his senses with panicked feelings of danger _, danger_.

With no easy way out, Diaval could do nothing but continue to move forward, commando-crawling on his belly on the frozen earth, relying upon sound and feeling alone as the darkness surrounded him, thick and impenetrable. He was certain that this void of nothingness was closing around him, squeezing him tighter, forcing the air from his lungs and smothering him.

He was going to die in here.

In the choking darkness, away from his loved ones, he was going to breath his last. Buried in a forgotten tunnel in the wilds of a foreign land.

He was letting them down. Wilfred. Aurora. _Maleficent_.

Maleficent.

Gods, what would Maleficent think of him right now, panicking and crying like this?

No. _No_. He was _not_ going to die in here. He was going to make it to the other end. He was going to find Wilfred. Those he loved most in the world were relying upon him to succeed, and succeed he _would_.

Diaval bit back a shaky sob and blinked away the tears which pooled, hot and prickling, in his eyes. His breath rasped, ragged and erratic, in his ears, increasing in volume and urgency with each painstaking inch that he hauled himself along the tunnel, but he kept going, slowly, slowly onward. He was not going to give in.

Ahead of him, he could hear Ekkert shuffling along – smaller than Diaval, he at least was able to crawl properly, and was far better off for it. The boy was, quite remarkably, singing a tuneless little song to himself, making up lyrics as he went along. He seemed completely unconcerned by the lack of visibility or the cold, or indeed the overall threatening nature of their surroundings.

It felt like hours. Days. Time held no meaning in total darkness. Unable to feel most of his body properly from the bitter chill which had sent in from the constant contact with the permafrost, all that Diaval could do was _just keep moving_ , keep his blood circulating, keep crawling ever onwards in search of the light.

Without warning, the boy’s voice echoed down the tunnel to Diaval, startling him and causing him to smack his head painfully on the roof. The raven man winced. “What?”

Ekkert repeated himself. “We’re about halfway, I think.”

“Good.” Diaval grunted. He tried not to think about the fact that they would have to bring Wilfred out the same way that they were getting in.

“You’re breathing funny.” Ekkert noted conversationally, his cheerful voice muffled by the uneven tunnel walls.

“What?”

“You’re breathing funny. Quickly, all over the place. Like you’ve been running.”

Diaval grimaced and forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly, trying to ignore the wild pounding of his heart, as loud as a thunderstorm in his ears. He wondered if the boy could hear that too. “This is hard work, Ekkert. I’m a lot bigger than you in this form.” he replied, hoping that the boy would take his words on face value. It wasn’t _entirely_ a lie, after all.

“What does that mean?” Ekkert called. His shuffling slowed a little as he waited for Diaval to respond.

“What does what mean?”

“You said, ‘in this form’.”

Diaval swore silently to himself for allowing the slip. Explaining his true nature would no doubt be a challenging enough conversation to have with the boy, but here, in a pitch-black tunnel beneath the ground? Did he not have enough to concern himself with?

Ekkert had stopped completely. Diaval could no longer hear any sound from him at all, other than the soft rustle of his breathing. He was waiting.

Well, a raven could only try. “I said ‘in this form’ because I don’t always look like this. I’m not actually human, you see. None of us are. Maleficent and Udo and Shrike and Borra are Dark Fey – they’re faeries. I’m a raven.”

“That’s silly.”

Diaval was vaguely offended. “It’s not silly. It’s just who I am. I’m a bird wearin’ a man skin because my Mistress – that’s Maleficent, the one who can do the really powerful magic – changes me into whatever she needs me to be.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

Despite himself, Diaval let out a brief huff of mirth at Ekkert’s complete acceptance of such a strange situation. He had to admit that he was becoming rather fond of the boy, for all that he was an odd little creature.

Suddenly, Ekkert let out a laugh – a truly bizarre, snorting sound which was not unlike the braying of a donkey – which reverberated and amplified along the length of the tunnel. “You’re a bird, and you have no wings. Your friends aren’t birds, and they do!” He dissolved into peals of laughter.

“Har-har.” Diaval replied. “You wait, once we’re all out of here and goin’ back home again, Mistress will change me back to my beautiful raven self, and I’ll have wings again. You’ll see.” He shuffled along with greater conviction, imagining his striking ebony feathers gleaming in the sunlight. He missed his wings.

“Why do you call her Mistress?” Ekkert asked, stifling his giggles.

“Because she’s my Mistress. She told me once that I could call her Maleficent, years ago, but I’d been callin’ her Mistress for years before that and it was pretty well stuck by then. I don’t think she minds.”

“You love Maleficent. You shouted it at the clouds and scared the horses.”

Diaval felt himself pale. He had hoped that Ekkert had forgotten about that particular piece of information. No such luck, apparently.

What if he said something to Maleficent? He needed to deal with this very, very carefully.

“Ekkert,” he began, “It’s complicated.”

The lad, evidently, was not actually listening anyway. “I’d like to be a horse.”

“What?”

“I’d like to be a horse. Can Maleficent do that?”

Diaval shrugged, realising only after he had done it that it was a pointless gesture in the blackness of the tunnel. “She might. You can ask her later on, if you want.”

Ekkert made a noise of glee and started moving forward with greater vigour. He nickered and whinnied to himself, pretending to be a horse, and punctuated his crawling by clicking his tongue to make clip-clop noises.

All of a sudden, he stopped. He must have turned his head back, Diaval thought, because this time his voice – perplexed and questioning, it was – came down the tunnel clearly as he spoke. 

“What’s your name?”

* * *

There was little that they could do but wait.

Maleficent had known that it would take Diaval and Ekkert several hours to make their way through the narrow tunnel into the castle dungeon – longer that it would usually take the boy alone, if only because Diaval in his human form was a six-foot-tall man who was ill-suited to crawling through a tunnel of that size – but she found herself rapping her talons on her knees in impatience nonetheless. She had seen the quiet terror in Diaval’s eyes as he entered the tunnel, and if she were to be honest with herself, she did not blame him for his claustrophobia one bit. After seeing the tunnel opening for herself, she had never been so grateful for her wings.

Maleficent and the other Dark Fey had taken up a position just below the summit of the highest peak on the southern side of the caldera. The shape of the summit was such that they were able to keep a periodic watch over Járnahöll without being seen, peering through a hand-sized opening in a mound of fallen rocks which had collapsed centuries earlier. Maleficent hoped that the Warlock had no means of observing the outside of the mountains, though, as their location was entirely exposed to the expanse of the plateau. It stretched out before them in an endless sea of browns and reds before disappearing over the horizon.

The plan itself was simple enough. Once Diaval had secured Wilfred, he would signal them with a light at the top of the tallest tower. He would then make his way out through the same tunnel which he had entered – although how that was supposed to work, given the size of the tunnel, Maleficent could only wonder (she did, however, trust Diaval implicitly to make an appropriate decision on escaping the castle once he was in there and had more information).

The Dark Fey would continue to wait after Diaval’s signal, to allow him time to get Wilfred out of the castle. Without the signal, they would not attack at all and amend their plans accordingly, but having seen it, they would move forward to engage the Warlock at dawn. They aimed to capture him if possible, if only to give Aurora and Phillip the option of meting punishment for abducting their son, but if the Warlock happened to be killed in the process, Maleficent would hardly shed a tear for the loss.

Her task was the most challenging, in that she would be the one dealing with the Warlock directly. Unsure as to the extent of his powers, it seemed wise for her to be the primary force. She hoped that his reputation was somewhat exaggerated and that he had no more magical ability than the other Dark Fey, but she was not naïve or foolish enough to wager the lives of her friends upon it.

Udo’s main task was to keep his keen eyes on the castle for the two servants, in the event that Diaval was unable to get them out as well. He would circle and provide support, ensuring that nobody was left behind. In particular, he would be alert to the possibility of Diaval himself leaving the castle aboveground, especially if he had the baby – if it proved to be the case, his orders were to grab the two of them and get them as far away from the fighting as possible.

Shrike was to come around from the north, guarding the mine shafts and ensuring that the Warlock was unable to use them to hide or escape. They had discusses the possibility of Shrike using her magic to grow plants across the mouths of the shafts, to block them entirely, but that was dependent on whether or not any vegetal life beyond Vætki’s garden actually existed within the caldera. She would also provide Maleficent with backup, should the need arise.

Borra’s wall-destroying assignment remained the same, with a further instruction to inflict as much damage as he possibly could to draw the Warlock into the open. To this end, he had spent a considerable amount of time stretching and flexing, spreading his wings as widely as possible and whipping them forward to produce mighty gusts of wind. Each blast sent a volley of rocks tumbling down the side of the mountain – irksome at the best of times, but downright foolish considering that they were supposed to be concealing themselves.

Shrike summoned shrubby tendrils from the inhospitable soil, raising them up and twirling them into a tight ball of vegetation, which she tossed up and down in one hand to gauge the weight and balance. Evidently pleased with what she found, the Jungle Fey took aim and lobbed the ball at Borra, striking him square in the back of the head.

He whirled around with a roar of outrage and advanced on Shrike, who arranged her face into an expression of utter innocence and pointed at Udo.

Borra stopped. “You don’t seriously expect me to believe that Udo threw that, do you?”

Shrike shrugged. “He might have. I’ve always suspected that Udo had a naughty side.”

“Never.” Udo replied with a smile, “I am as innocent as a babe and as pure as the driven snow.”

Borra snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “Rubbish. I seem to recall an incident involving you and your mate on the beach…”

Udo held up his hands in protest. “I claim innocence – time was of the essence that night. And we did get our Ueli out of it. It was worth it.”

“His point is a good one. Ueli is a great kid.” Shrike conceded as Borra threw the plant ball back to her. She caught it nimbly and stuck her tongue out at him. “Want to play catch?”

* * *

There was a light.

Diaval squinted, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him, amplifying his fears and causing him to hallucinate that which he craved the most. No, there was definitely a light – a tiny speck of light in the midst of the encompassing darkness. It winked and flickered as Ekkert moved between it and Diaval, but grew ever larger as they crawled closer to it.

The raven man gasped in relief as he realised that the light was coming from the end of the tunnel. Quickening his pace, he shuffled himself along toward it, not caring what he might find at the other end so long as he was out of the icy blackness.

He watched as Ekkert reached the mouth of the tunnel and tumbled forward, disappearing into whatever lay on the other side. The end of the tunnel was suddenly illuminated brightly with the boy out of the way, and Diaval’s lower lip trembled in relief as he power-crawled the last twenty feet and somersaulted at long last into the light.

Frozen, filthy and breathing hard, Diaval landed heavily on a floor of unforgiving earth and winced at the resulting burst of pain. Rolling over, he groaned and pushed himself to his feet, stretching out and feeling the satisfying popping of his joints as they recovered from hours of confinement.

They were in a dungeon – that much was clear. It was poorly illuminated, but compared to the darkness of the tunnel, it may as well have been broad daylight. Several wrought-iron wall sconces flickered merrily – obviously lit before Ekkert had left that morning – and cast a warm glow which was at odds with the cold harshness of the raw stone surrounding them. It appeared as though the castle foundations had been dug deep into the earth of the caldera. Diaval wondered how far beneath the surface they were.

He cleared his throat, but kept his voice low. “There’s no chance of your master bein’ down here?” he asked Ekkert. The lad shook his head.

“No, he doesn’t come down here. He says that the iron makes him itchy. It makes him angry that iron itches him now.”

Diaval raised an eyebrow. Surely there was some sense to be found in the boy’s words somewhere. A magical creature was sensitive to iron, he knew that much. Maleficent couldn’t even approach it, and it glowed an angry red if she did. Were she to touch it, it would burn her skin in an instant.

He had never known her to complain about it _itching_ , though. Interesting.

Diaval looked around, noting that the dungeon was clearly not used for its intended purpose of incarcerating prisoners by the present occupants of Járnahöll – there were metal cages, but all of the doors hung open. Some had been removed entirely.

If anything, it seemed that they used it for storage. In one corner, wine barrels were stacked three-high, though they appeared to be seldom disturbed. Nearby, dozens of links of preserved meats encased in animal intestines – most likely horse, Diaval surmised – hung from the ceiling, the cool of the dungeon helping to keep them from spoiling.

Turning around, Diaval looked back into the mouth of the tunnel that he had come through. To his surprise, it was not the only one. Spaced some six feet apart, it was in fact the middle of three, all painstakingly dug into the stone and out into the frozen earth of the plain beyond.

“Are they the east and west tunnels?” he asked Ekkert.

“Yes. They turn about fifty feet in. You only know when your face hits the wall.”

“Ah.” Diaval turned back around to face Ekkert. “They all go all the way through, though? No blockages?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That gives us some options for gettin’ out of here, at least.” Not that he especially _wanted_ to go back through the tunnels, but if they were being pursued, at least they had a two-in-three chance of the Warlock choosing the wrong tunnel.

Diaval frowned, his attention suddenly drawn to the darkest corner of the dungeon, where he had spied something small and white in his peripheral vision. “What’s that?”

It looked suspicious. Concerningly so.

He made his way across the dungeon to the corner, where a tiny wrapped bundle lay forgotten on the filthy floor. Small and swaddled, like a baby cocooned and suffocated in its blankets. Beside it were two sad little cairns, no higher than Diaval’s ankles, built up with fragments of stone which had sheared from the walls and scattered in the dirt.

“What is this?” the raven man asked nervously. It couldn’t be Wilfred. It couldn’t be. Maleficent had seen the baby alive and well just the day before. It couldn’t be his grandson, even if the little white bundle of blankets _was_ exactly the size of a human infant.

“Oh.” Ekkert said, sadness creeping into his usually chipper tone as he drew up beside Diaval, “That’s Alazne.”

“Alazne?”

Ekkert nodded. “Vætki cried. The Master let her keep Alazne. He didn’t let her keep the others. But he said that Vætki could keep her. That’s why she called her Alazne. She said it meant ‘miracle’.”

Diaval could not hide the mounting horror of his expression. His heart was pounding again. “Oh gods…”

Ekkert bit his lip as he continued, “It didn’t matter. It was only a few months. Alazne died anyway. A week or so ago. She got sick. We haven’t had time to bury her. The Master sent us for the baby prince. We had to go.”

Diaval knelt by the tiny bundle and carefully unwrapped it, slowly revealing the still, silent face of a baby girl. The cold of the dungeon had somewhat preserved her in the scant days since her death, and though she was pale and limp and her dark eyes clouded and unseeing, he could tell that she had been a beautiful child. Her eyes had been brown, just like her mother’s, and fine hair like wisps of dusky silk lay upon her perfect little head. Tears welled in his eyes at the unfairness, the _pointlessness_ of the death of this innocent creature. Had she been born far from here, nearer to help when she became ill, then perhaps she might have lived.

And Vætki…

Diaval’s eyes roamed to the two little cairns in the dirt – grave markers, he realised, tributes to Vætki’s lost babies. Nausea washed over him, though he forced it down and out of his conscious mind as he blinked back the tears which still threatened to fall.

“Your master – he killed them?” he asked hoarsely.

Ekkert nodded. “As soon as they were born.”

“Is he their father?”

“Their father?”

The raven man looked up at the boy with an expression of pity. “Was your master the one who started them? Did he lay with Vætki?”

The boy shrugged. “He goes to her. Sometimes she screams. I’m not allowed there. He punishes me if I try to help her.”

Diaval nodded. He could extrapolate well enough.

He had to get them out of here. Wilfred, Ekkert and Vætki. They were all victims of this Warlock along with the three tiny, innocent babes who lay forever sleeping in the dungeon of the castle.

How old had Vætki been the first time? She hardly looked more than twenty. Diaval knew from Aurora’s pregnancy with Wilfred that it took almost a year to grow and birth a human child, and here were _three_ of them. Even consecutively, Vætki would have been a child herself when the Warlock began to violate her. How long had she and Ekkert been his servants?

He bit back the bile which rose in his throat.

“I have to go upstairs. The Master will be looking for me. It’s been hours.” Ekkert piped up.

“Go. We don’t want him suspectin’ anythin’. Once he’s sleepin’, come and get me.” Regardless of this new and horrible discovery, the plan had to be adhered to – wait until the Warlock slept, recover Wilfred, signal the Dark Fey and get out of the castle before they attacked at dawn. With no way to communicate with Maleficent, any changes to that could prove deadly. He _had_ to stick to the plan, even though every fibre of his being screamed at him to get his grandson as far away from this magical psychopath as possible _right now_.

He paused, taking a few calming breaths. He had to occupy himself as he waited until the time was right, and sadly, he knew just what would do it. “Ekkert? Do you have somethin’ to dig with?”

“There’s a stick by the stairs.”

Diaval nodded his thanks. “While you’re sortin’ out the Warlock… well, this poor wee lass deserves a proper burial, at the least.”

Ekkert reached over and gripped Diaval’s hand. For the first time since meeting him, the raven man saw a flash of something – intelligence? Understanding? – in the boy’s eyes. “Thank you.” he murmured. He squeezed Diaval’s hand, then skittered clumsily up the stairs into the main castle.

Diaval slowly retrieved the stick from beside the stairs and made his way back to the little graveyard by the stone wall. He began to grind it into the hard earth next to the two sad little graves already lying there, carving out a tiny, pitiful tomb for the lifeless baby.

It was innocent lost, again and again, and it galled him to see it in yet another way. Lives torn apart by rage and bitterness, jealousy and greed. Variations on a theme, but linked nonetheless.

This tiny girl, barely older than Wilfred, a child who should have grown up strong and joyful with the world at her feet, but for an illness and no way to help her. Her newborn siblings, nameless and faceless beneath the soil, mourned by their mother as they were murdered by their father, never allowed the chance to live out the gift that was their lives. Poor Vætki, forced to watch the babes she had borne in pain and tears slaughtered by the one who sired them, who came to her again and again and forced her to lay with him.

He wanted to be angry at Vætki and Ekkert for stealing Wilfred away in the dead of night, but found that he could not. Compassion quelled his rage, quieting the beast which growled and hissed revenge within his gentle heart. They were so young, and at the mercy of a monster. He could not blame them for doing what was necessary to save their own lives.

He would not leave them here to die.

Sweat mingled with tears, smearing trails of dirt across his already filthy face. The ground was solid and unyielding, but still he dug, inch by punishing inch, deeper and deeper into the cold earth.

Hours must have passed, but Diaval knew none of them. His world was the soil, his life was the rhythmic thrust and grind of the stick churning up the earth, scooping it out with his hands as the hole grew incrementally bigger, deeper, more and more like a grave.

Finally, he threw down the stick and carefully picked up the silent body of little Alazne, cradling her delicately in his aching arms.

Taking one last look at her angelic little face, he wrapped the blankets around her once more and laid her gently in her cold and miserable bed.

Slowly, carefully, as though trying not to wake her, Diaval covered her over with dirt, his blistered hands stinging as he smoothed over the grave. He then wandered about the dungeon, gathering a handful of fallen stone pieces, and painstakingly constructed a little cairn to make the baby’s final resting place.

At last, spent, he knelt beside the pathetic little grave and bowed his head, wishing that he could have done more for her than merely lay her to rest. He felt as though he should say something.

It came to him piecemeal, though only because he wore his human form and it broke the even flow of the thoughts that he would have had as a raven. There were words that ravens spoke, sung from rasping throats in grief and loss, and known and understood by all as the prayer for the dead. Diaval himself had spoken it, more than once in fact, over the bodies of his dear sisters Álainn and Séiseach. Though it would lose some of the nuance and finer meaning when translated from the raven tongue in which it originated, he figured that Alazne’s departing spirit would understand it anyway.

Placing a hand on the dirt of the baby’s grave, Diaval murmured in his soft rasp the words of the raven prayer for the dead, taught to him by his mother as a chick in the nest and forever remember since, for that was how a raven said goodbye forever.

“Fly on home, beloved one  
Fly away on wings of might   
Toward the sunset, on to forever  
Beyond the dark of night.

For you, a bright new dawn  
Rise with joy o’er earth and sea  
Soar away on summer breezes  
Glide on laughing wings, now free.

Feel pain and hunger nevermore  
Fly on into eternity  
Find your way beyond the stars  
And wait there, precious one, for me.”

He hung his head and whispered words of encouragement, willing the baby to find her way to the next world, to her lost siblings, to wait until her grieving mother someday joined her and held her in her arms once more.

As he knelt there, willing, wishing, praying in the way that ravens pray, a soft shuffling on the stairs above and a quiet call heralded Ekkert’s return. “Diaval? He’s asleep.”

With a steely expression on his face, Diaval rose from beside the grave and brushed the dirt from his hands. 

It was time to find Wilfred, so that he didn’t end up in a hole in the ground as well.


	14. Chapter 14

“This way.” Ekkert whispered as he led Diaval up the narrow stone stairs, worn down in the middle of each step from centuries of hurried footfalls. It disturbed Diaval that a dungeon could see enough foot traffic to wear down solid stone. Perhaps, as was the case with the current occupants, it had been used more for storage of goods rather than for the incarceration of the captured. A bird could only hope.

They tiptoed down a long, bare stone corridor, utterly nondescript but for the simple doors spaced at intervals along it. The stone itself was roughly hewn, starkly contrasting to the polished perfection of the outer walls of the castle, and gave the hallway an unfinished, hurried appearance. Little effort had been made to adorn the space – it was depressingly utilitarian.

One of the doors along the way had fallen from its hinges, allowing Diaval to see into the room within. It was tiny and spartan, barely large enough to accommodate the remains of a small bed and a washbasin. Diaval assumed that the rooms were the servants’ quarters from the time of the more powerful Nyrsta Vígan kings. Járnahöll had quite a large capacity for staff, he realised – it must have been a centre of great power and authority for some time before it had been abandoned.

At the end of the corridor was another door which led to another, much larger hallway. This hallway apparently saw the passage of aristocratic individuals, as far more care had been taken to render it aesthetically pleasing than the drab servants’ corridor behind them. The stone walls gleamed, black with flecks of white silicate inclusions, and musty tapestries draped along the walls to give the space the illusion of warmth and luxuriousness amid the austere surroundings of the volcanic caldera.

Diaval tried not to examine the tapestries too closely, though it was difficult to tear his eyes away. They reminded him of the ones hanging in the hallways in the castle in Ulstead; images of humans besting nature, slaying beasts and fighting against all that grew around them. Shades of red featured all too prominently for the raven man’s liking. He shuddered involuntarily.

Ekkert paused some fifty feet down the hallway at a pair of enormous sculpted doors. Works of art in themselves, they towered above the boy, rising up four times his height and stretching thrice his meagre armspan. Though the material was rare and valuable in these parts, they had been carved from solid wood, and told the tale of a long-dead king slaying a mighty dragon. The bearded monarch, his suit of armour painstakingly polished to a silken finish, had been captured thrusting his sword into the exposed breast of the beast as it reared up in retaliation, as a burst of flame issued from its open mouth and curled upward into the darkness. Inlaid precious stones glinted in the low light; a whole garnet forming the angry red eye of the dragon, and smaller stones of nephrite and peridot emphasised the great wings of the creature.

Diaval reached out and touched one of the sparkling stones. The yellowish green of the peridot reminded him sweetly of Maleficent’s remarkable eyes, as though she were somehow watching over him, guarding him in his mission. He found it oddly comforting.

Ekkert pushed one of the heavy doors a crack and peered beyond it, looking around carefully.

“Good. He’s not here.” The boy turned back to Diaval, relief written all over his face. He pushed the door open properly, allowing the raven man to see into a large, opulent gallery which bespoke riches and grandeur beyond anything that he had previously encountered in Nyrsta Vígi. “Sometimes the Master gets up again, after he goes to bed. He walks around all night. He shouts at the paintings.”

“Shouts at the paintings? What does he shout?” Diaval asked quietly. Nevertheless, his voice echoed incoherently around the large room, bouncing from the expanse of hard, cold stone floor and into the rafters above. He flicked his eyes toward the far end of the space nervously, expecting the Warlock to appear in response.

Ekkert shrugged. “Lots of things. He yells names a lot. ‘Lickspittle, you nīðingr, I will pluck out your eyes and eat them’. ‘Ingrith, Ek hatþúr’. Things like that.”

The Nyrsta Vígan made no sense to Diaval, but the exact meaning of the Warlock’s words were irrelevant. It was to whom they were directed that piqued the raven’s interest.

“Ingrith? He definitely says _Ingrith_?” Diaval hissed, his eyes wide. He gripped Ekkert’s bony shoulders and faced the boy, trying to read the answer in his vacant brown eyes. The fact that the Warlock was also apparently familiar with Lickspittle had not escaped him, but considering what they had already learned about him, it only served to reinforce Diaval’s existing suspicions about the Warlock’s origins in the Moors.

“Ingrith, Lickspittle. Sometimes strange things like ‘Hann er dauðr; hann er eigi dauðr; ek munu munu dauðr; ek munu eigi dey’ over and over.” Ekkert intoned in a singsong tone, repeating the Nyrsta Vígan by rote. Diaval wondered if the boy actually understood any of it. He, personally, did not understand a word.

“Why?” Ekkert asked vaguely, bringing the raven’s attention back to him.

Diaval paused, wondering how much he should tell the boy – if only because he appeared to understand surprisingly little, and the effort would be in vain. Eventually, he settled on telling him a carefully simplified truth.

“Ingrith is baby Wilfred’s grandmother.” Diaval left it at that, hoping that Ekkert would have no follow-up questions. How the Warlock knew of Ingrith in the first place, he could only speculate, though an ominous hypothesis as to why it had been Prince Wilfred who had been targeted was beginning to form in his mind.

“Oh.” The boy looked vaguely confused, as though trying to piece together the various shreds of information that he had acquired but not really knowing quite how to manage it. Eventually, he shook his head a little and grasped Diaval’s wrist, pulling him into the gallery.

It was a daunting place. The ceiling soared some fifty feet above them, coming to a sharp, almost sinister-looking apex which disappeared into darkness, too high for the dull lamplight to penetrate. The room itself was easily as long, though it was narrower along its width, and the bare polished stone walls glimmered in the flickering light cast by numerous ornate wall sconces. Unlike the ones in the dungeon, these sconces were cast of bronze – far better suited to one who became itchy in the presence of iron.

Between the candleholders, enormous portraits of former monarchs, easily eight feet tall apiece, glared down at Diaval and Ekkert as though understanding their purpose in being there and disapproving immensely.

The eerie familiarity in several of the portraits set Diaval’s nerves on edge. A pair of cold blue eyes here, thin, judgmental lips there – features which had been passed from parent to child throughout the ages to finally settle within the face of the Ulsteadan queen. One portrait in particular, located about halfway along the gallery between the foreboding paintings of her husband and son, had him stopping and gasping in surprise, for it could have been Ingrith herself but for the centuries-old attire in which she had been painted. Even the regal glower in her expression was virtually identical to that of the Queen. A shiny silver plaque below the glaring portrait identified her as Queen Skaði Þórhildr, with dates which suggested that she could have been Ingrith’s great-great grandmother.

“It’s this one, isn’t it? The one he shouts at when he’s callin’ out Ingrith.” Diaval surmised aloud.

Ekkert stood beside him and regarded the portrait. “Yes. I don’t think that’s her name, though.”

“It’s not – not accordin’ to this plaque – but it could be her. Looks exactly like her.” It was truly uncanny, and the resemblance to the genocidal queen who had taken the lives of so many of his friends made him extremely uneasy. 

Diaval reread the plaque again, just to make absolutely sure that it definitely wasn’t Ingrith herself. There were certainly some remarkably dominant features in the Nyrsta Vígan royal family. It was interesting, though – Phillip had inherited nothing of Ingrith but her pallid colouring. But for his lofty height, he was very much his father’s son.

“She looks like _him_ , too.” Ekkert remarked in a conversational tone, as though they were discussing nothing more significant than the bracing weather or the specific descriptor one would use for the shade of Diaval’s hair. He folded his arms over his emaciated chest and rocked back and forth on his heels, examining the painting with feigned interest.

“What? Who looks like who?” Diaval frowned, turning to the boy and raising an eyebrow quizzically.

Ekkert pointed to the portrait of Queen Skaði Þórhildr. “She looks like the Master.” He cocked his head and examined the painting more closely, peering at it as though seeing it clearly for the very first time. “A _lot_ like the Master.”

Diaval’s hands were tingling. 

If this Queen Skaði Þórhildr looked like Ingrith, but also like the Warlock…

…then the Warlock must look like _Ingrith_ , which must mean that-

“Ekkert, is there a portrait of your master here?” the raven man rasped urgently.

The boy nodded vigorously. He led Diaval to the very end of the gallery, to where the subjects of the portraits began to be depicted in increasingly modern clothing styles. Stopping before the very last one on the opposite wall to the painting of Queen Skaði Þórhildr, he pointed up at the face of the man in the portrait.

“That’s him.”

Diaval gazed up at the tall young man in the painting – a boy, really, though quite well-developed for his age – amazed at the strength of the resemblance to the haughty Ulsteadan queen. It could have been Ingrith playing dress-up in a man’s doublet and hose, but for the stronger, more masculine features. His long hair was the same flaxen blonde as hers, pulled back from his face with a leather strap. His eyes were an identical shade of icy blue and every bit as cruel and conniving.

His clothing was fine and well-made, obvious even in a painted image. He was clad in velvet and silk, the trappings of royalty, and he wore them well, clearly accustomed to such luxuries. His expression was cold and haughty, staring disdainfully at both the painter of his portrait and those who might sully his image by viewing it. His entire countenance exuded arrogance and condescension.

The man wore a sash over the rich blue velvet of his doublet. It crossed from his left shoulder to his right hip, and he wore it proudly, thrusting out his chest to draw attention to the fine crest which had been embroidered upon it. A wolf crest.

A wolf, wielding an axe.

Diaval let out a shuddering breath and covered his mouth with his hand as his eyes dropped down to the name on the silver plaque below the portrait, confirming in his consciousness the truth which his heart had already realised.

_Prince Fritjof Vargr of Nyrsta Vígi._

“It’s him.” Diaval whispered softly, “Prince Fritjof. Ingrith’s missin’ brother is the Warlock.”

* * *

Maleficent shivered in the uncomfortable chill of the night air and wrapped her wings more firmly around her seated form, though she did not take her eyes from Járnahöll.

It was probably well and truly time for Udo’s watch, were she to turn her gaze skyward to read the position of the stars, but she found herself unwilling to move. Somewhere within that castle, assuming that everything had gone to plan thus far, Diaval was reuniting with Wilfred and getting him to safety.

She hoped that nothing would go wrong in the meantime.

The castle was deathly silent in the stillness of the night. She could see the faint flicker of candlelight in several of the narrow windows, though, and she stared intently in the hope of seeing some sign of her raven’s presence.

As the sun had quietly sunk below the horizon, turning the sky innumerable shades of pale oranges and pinks before fading entirely to reveal the lucent twinkling stars above, the Dark Fey had moved further down the mountain and into a small cave to shelter for the night. It was barely large enough for all four of them – a shallow dip in the rock rather than a true cave, sheared into the mountainside by an ancient rockslide – but it sufficed for a single night.

She had tried to sleep during Shrike and Borra’s watches, but found herself unable to relax enough to do so. How could she sleep when her closest friend was walking – well, crawling, technically – straight into danger, and without her no less? She abhorred the helpless feeling in the pit of her stomach, knowing that there was nothing that she could do at this point but wait until the time was right. She had to trust in Diaval and hope that he would be safe.

A soft noise to her left caught Maleficent’s attention. She started, then relaxed with a gentle smile.

“You were supposed to wake me.” Udo reprimanded her gently, seating himself beside her and wrapping himself in his glorious snowy wings.

Maleficent shrugged. “I doubt that I could sleep anyway. It hardly seemed fair to wake you.”

“You are worried about them.” the Tundra Fey said knowingly. Though his statement was obvious, there was an underlying implication in his tone which sent Maleficent’s inner defences into overdrive. An understanding, perhaps, of the true source of her worry – certainly the safety of her grandson was paramount, but the inference that her fears were amplified by the fact that it was _Diaval_ who had been sent into danger made her deeply uncomfortable.

“Of course I am. Anything could be happening in there. I don’t even know if Diaval made it safely through the tunnel.” she replied curtly. She hoped that he had made it – the alternative was unthinkable.

Udo regarded her for a moment. “I believe that he made it through.”

“What makes you so sure? We have no way to know.” Maleficent hissed, her tone probably blunter than the other Fey strictly deserved. Udo was nothing if not kind, but his gentle understanding was not what she needed right now. She could hardly punish herself in the face of such forgiveness and compassion.

“Can you not feel him? Your magic is within him, holding him to his man shape. Reach out. Feel him.”

“I…” Maleficent frowned. Udo was right to a certain extent – her magic was a permanent presence within Diaval, irrespective of his form, but she doubted that it kept him in his man shape any longer. Still, it would be of no great effort to do as Udo suggested and reach out to her raven, if only to ascertain that he was still among the land of the living.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on the feeling of her magic swirling within her. Down further, into her bones and her blood, to where it rested in the very smallest parts of her body, strange little things in their billions. She reached out with it, urging it to find its brethren in the body of the raven man, to find that which was familiar and reveal that it still existed in the world.

His presence was like a beacon; a light so bright as to almost be overwhelming. She felt him there within the castle, her magic dancing about his being like fairies welcoming the dawn. Not deep within the very tiniest parts of him as in herself, but surrounding them, embracing them like a loved one, and those tiny parts in turn basked in the inviting glow of the magic which was so familiar and welcome to them. He stood out to her so plainly against the muted otherness of the stone castle that she marvelled at having never realised it before. He _shone_.

Though she could not tell precisely where in the castle he was, she _could_ tell that he was in there and, at least for the moment, safe. 

Maleficent reluctantly let him go, allowing the tendrils of her magic to recede back into herself.

“He is unharmed?” asked Udo.

“For now.” Maleficent replied. “He has made it into the castle. We should be alert for his signal.”

* * *

“Up here. Vætki and the baby are in the west tower.” Ekkert whispered, ushering Diaval through another, smaller gallery and to a narrow, spiralling stone staircase. It ascended clockwise through the darkness at the centre of the tower. Diaval could hear the faint murmur of a woman’s voice echoing from above them.

“Where is your master? Does he sleep here too?” Diaval asked. He flattened himself against the wall, peering upward and listening closely for any sign of the Warlock.

“His chambers are in the east tower. He only comes here when he…” Ekkert trailed off. “You know.”

Diaval nodded in understanding, the reminder of the Warlock’s violence toward the siblings strengthening his resolve. The sooner they found Wilfred and Vætki, the sooner they could all get out of Járnahöll and never darken its doorstep again. “Come on. Take me to them.”

Quietly, they made their way upward into the west tower, passing nearly a dozen empty, shuttered chambers along the way. Once again, Diaval wondered just how many humans had lived there in the castle’s heyday. Perhaps the barren permafrost plain had not always been so, and the human settlements had flourished and given rise to a thriving nation around a naturally fortified castle.

Until, of course, something went wrong, as it clearly had.

Still, Diaval had no time to dwell upon what may have happened to Nyrsta Vígans long ago. He quietly resolved to do a bit of independent research in the Ulstead Castle library once they had rescued and returned Wilfred, before the next crisis inevitably presented itself, but it was hardly worth considering in his present circumstances.

Ekkert stopped abruptly in front of a nondescript wooden door about two-thirds of the way up the tower and knocked gently. “Vætki? It’s me.”

“Come in, Ekkert.” came a soft voice from within the chamber.

Ekkert turned to Diaval. “Wait here. She doesn’t know about you. I have to tell her first, or she’ll scream. _Really_ loudly.” he said matter-of-factly.

“Don’t take too long with it.” Diaval muttered, looking back down the stairs in trepidation. The last thing he needed was the Warlock coming across him as he lurked in the darkness on the staircase, never mind that his grandson was most likely right behind that door, just out of his reach. He thought that he was showing admirable restraint by not bursting straight in.

Ekkert nodded as he pushed the door open and stepped into the room. He left the door ajar. Diaval wondered if it was intentional. He could hear the quiet murmurs of the siblings’ voices as they spoke to each other.

“There’s a man here. Diaval. The winged lady’s friend. Don’t scream.”

“What?” There was a soft rustling from within the chamber; something being put down, and the gentle sound of clothed footsteps on the stone. Vætki sounded agitated, bordering on terrified. “Why is he here? Why did you let him into the castle?”

“He’s going to take me back with him. With them. Diaval and the winged faeries. To Ulstead. And you. Away from the Master. No more beatings.” Diaval heard Ekkert sigh shakily. “No more dead babies.”

“You trust him? How do you know can you trust him? What if he kills us – what if the Master finds out and _he_ kills us?” Vætki replied tremulously. “You’ll be beaten to death if the Master finds out that you’ve even _spoken_ to this Diaval, never mind if we try to escape! Ekkert, it isn’t worth the risk!” she hissed.

There was a pause. “I trust him.” the boy answered, “They’ve been so kind. They just want the little prince back. I think it is worth the risk.”

“But the Master…”

Diaval could wait no longer. He pushed the door open slowly, mindful that alarming Vætki and making her scream with fright would have the Warlock upon them in seconds, and entered the room very slowly.

It was a small chamber, partitioned into living and sleeping quarters by a threadbare curtain which had been hung haphazardly from the exposed ceiling beams. A shabby brown chaise, faded, torn and patched repeatedly with all manner of mismatched materials, sagged directly opposite the door. It was the most prominent of the drab furnishings which drooped, dull and aging, about the bare stone walls like elderly crones mere minutes from death. A small cup of bright yellow flowers sat on a wobbly table beneath one of the tiny, useless windows – tulips, Diaval thought, or something like them. They were the only spot of bright colour in the entire room.

“Please don’t scream.” Diaval asked, keeping his voice low and even. “I’m not goin’ to hurt you. Ekkert is right – everything he’s said, we’ve promised that. We’ll take you home with us, set you up in Ulstead – or the Moors if you’d prefer it – and you can be free to live your lives without fear.”

Vætki’s eyes were enormous, but she did not scream. “How do I know I can trust you?” she asked dubiously. She chewed her lower lip; the only indication of the depth of her fear. He realised that the only reason for her question was that he had not attacked her from the first; she truly did not know what to make of him.

Diaval could almost see the pain radiating from her thin frame; a young woman so accustomed to hurt and betrayal that she could not help but expect it to continue. He knew that look – he had seen it a thousand times on the face of his Mistress, before she found her way through the worst of her anguish and mistrust.

He still saw it sometimes.

Ekkert took a step closer to her and put his skinny arm around her shoulders, though she never tore her eyes from the raven man’s face. Her stare was intense and uneasy, scrutinising him for any sign of ill will toward herself or her brother.

“Please,” Diaval croaked, “I need you to trust me, so that I can get you all out of this place. I know that you have the prince, Vætki. Little Wilfred. I need to get him home to his mother. She misses him.” He lowered his gaze to the cold stone floor of her chambers for a moment, thinking of the little ones who lay buried beneath the castle. “I would think that you’d understand somethin’ of how Aurora is feelin’.” he murmured, forcing himself to look at her again.

Tears filled the young woman’s eyes, but she did not break his gaze; rather, she set her jaw and lifted her chin defiantly, as though daring Diaval to hurt her further.

He could only imagine what this poor girl must have been through to have such a reaction to one who caused her pain.

Ekkert moved to embrace his sister tightly and she leaned into him, comforted by his familiarity. His voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke, but Diaval heard his words nonetheless. “Vætki, he buried Alazne. Dug her a grave. He did right by her.”

The girl’s resolve crumbled and she let out a heartbroken sob, burying her face in her brother’s bony shoulder and gripping his back convulsively as she fell apart. She might have been speaking, though it was difficult to make out her words amid her grief-stricken cries. Diaval could hear one word perfectly clearly, however – the desperate wailing of Alazne’s name, over and over again.

It was like a knife to the gullet that there was nothing that he could do to ease her pain; the twist was that he may have unintentionally made it worse.

He stood there like an island in an endless sea, his hands clenching and unclenching in anguish and indecision. Though it was in his nature to do so, trying to comfort the girl would be pushing her too far. He was a stranger to her, and he doubted that she wanted any stranger in a man shape anywhere near her, not after all that the Warlock had done to her – and continued to do to her, if Ekkert was to be believed.

In any case, her brother seemed to have the situation in hand, gently stroking her back in soothing circles as he rocked her slowly. He started singing a little song, low and atonal, in her ear, in a language which Diaval did not understand.

It pained him to realise that Ekkert knew just what to do because of how frequently he had to do it.

Over Vætki’s distraught weeping and Ekkert’s tuneless song, Diaval’s ears pricked at another faint sound – a little coo, followed by a soft “Ooo-eee, oooh”. It was coming from behind the curtain, from the bedchamber beyond.

He knew that little voice. He would know that little voice anywhere.

Diaval’s feet were moving before his brain caught up, and he was at the curtain before he even realised what he was doing. He was trembling, his palms damp with sweat, and he couldn’t quite draw enough air into his lungs to feel entirely comfortable.

It had to be Wilfred. It _had_ to be.

Diaval made himself take several long, deep breaths to calm his racing heart and quieten the butterflies which had taken up residence in his stomach, though it did little to calm the tension which tightened the muscles in his chest and threatened to overwhelm him. 

Holding his breath, he whipped the tattered curtain aside.

Dizziness overwhelmed him for a moment and he squeezed his eyes closed, fighting the sudden lightheadedness. What if he was wrong? What if he was dooming himself to further disappointment and grief?

No.

Trembling, he forced himself to relax and open his eyes again. He had _not_ come this far only to succumb to the ridiculous machinations of his unpredictable man-body at a critical moment. His mouth pulled into a crooked smile as Maleficent’s voice echoed in his mind: _“Pull yourself together.”_

He would pull himself together.

Diaval made himself take two steps forward.

Behind the curtain was an unstable-looking bed, covered with an ugly, thin blanket which had seen better days. A chair rested against one wall, just as rickety as the bed and appearing to be even more uncomfortable.

Beside the bed was a cradle.

Carved from solid wood, dry and split in places from centuries of use, it rocked slightly as a blanket-covered foot kicked upward from within it, followed by another quiet “Ooohahh eeeh.”

Diaval bit back a cry of jubilation as his heart leapt into his throat. In three long strides, he stood beside the cradle, gazing down in tearful relief at the face of the precious baby boy who lay within it.

“Hello Wilfred.” he murmured, choking back a sob as a grin spread clear across his face. A tear escaped and rolled down his cheek, but Diaval wasted no energy in wiping it away. He reached into the cradle to scoop up his grandson, holding the boy to his heart as tightly as he dared.

He was here. He was _alive_.

Wilfred’s warm weight in his arms at last opened a floodgate of emotion. His tears began to flow in earnest, love and relief overwhelming him until he could no longer contain it. Sobs became laughter, bubbling up from deep inside him and bursting forth aloud, and he spun about with a whoop of joy.

“You’re safe, you’re safe…” Diaval wept, clutching the baby to his chest. Tears dropped into Wilfred’s soft blonde locks, and the baby turned his big blue eyes up to his grandfather curiously. They lit up in recognition.

“Ooooh-eehh.” he gurgled, his face breaking into a toothless smile. He kicked his legs and waved his arms about in unfettered excitement at seeing a familiar face.

“Oh my little darlin’ man, I’ve missed you so much.” Diaval beamed, even as his face shone wet with joyous tears. “We’re going to take you home now. Home to your mama and daddy, where you belong.”

He hugged Wilfred close again, closing his eyes and allowing a brief moment to lose himself in the feeling of the boy safe and well in his arms. Tears seeped from beneath his eyelids and clung to his eyelashes, catching the candlelight like diamonds.

Their mission was not yet over, and they were not even out of danger, but in that moment, nothing else in the entire world mattered beyond the child who snuggled into the warm, familiar comfort of his chest.

Diaval opened his eyes again to see Vætki watching him with red, swollen eyes. She stepped away from Ekkert’s embrace and bit her lower lip, her expression a cataclysm of grief and longing.

Visibly trembling, she whined almost inaudibly and took a tiny step toward Diaval, as though she wanted to take Wilfred back from him. Diaval turned slightly away, shielding the prince with his body, but he held her gaze firmly.

“His mother needs him back, Vætki. I know you must want to, but you can’t keep him. He needs to be back with his parents. I wish…” Diaval swallowed hard, “I wish there was a way I could give you your little girl back. And the other two little ones. I wish I could take away your grief, your pain, and return your babies to you, but takin’ and keepin’ someone else’s child only passes that pain onto someone else.”

Vætki nodded slowly and wiped her eyes, her shoulders drooping sadly. “I know.” she whispered. “He’s not mine. He’s not mine, and we should never have taken him.”

Diaval slowly approached her, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt despite all that her actions had precipitated. “You didn’t really have much of a choice in that, though, from what Ekkert has told me.” The girl shook her head and looked down at the worn stone floor. She scraped the thin leather of her boot against a rough spot which jutted up slightly, as though trying to level it.

“The Master would have killed us if we hadn’t done as he ordered. He’s powerful. He’ll probably kill us all now; you and your friends as well as me and Ekkert.” Her lower lip trembled at the thought.

“We won’t let that happen.” Diaval promised her. “Maleficent is powerful too – I’ve never seen anyone with magic as strong as hers. I’ve known her for twenty-three years and I’ve not once seen her come close to runnin’ it down, though she tells me it’s possible, theoretically. She’ll keep us safe. I trust her with my life.”

Vætki regarded him carefully, her expression unyielding despite the swollen redness of her eyes. “That’s a lot of trust to place in someone.” she replied cautiously.

Diaval ducked his head and smiled, unexpectedly embarrassed. “She could have hurt me a thousand times.” he insisted, “She never has, not once, even when she was in terrible pain herself and had every reason to be lashin’ out. But she _has_ protected me all these years, protected our daughter, and she’s vowed to protect little Wilfred here. Nothin’ on Earth stands a chance against Maleficent.”

Ekkert cupped his sister’s ear. “He loves her.” he whispered loudly. Diaval felt his ears redden.

“That’s not relevant.” he replied, ignoring the blush which steadily crept up his cheeks at the realisation that Ekkert had both the knowledge and the lack of mental input to spill the beans to Maleficent herself. “That’s between her and me, and one day we might actually talk about it. But right now – I’m askin’ you to trust me. Because I’m takin’ Wilfred here regardless, but I’d like you both to come with me too. It’s no kind of a life that you’re livin’ here. Come back with me to Ulstead. We’ll look after you.”

Vætki and Ekkert exchanged a look; hers questioning, his pleading. Wilfred squirmed in Diaval’s arms and whined, wanting for entertainment. The raven man bounced him gently, earning a giggle from the young prince.

Finally, Vætki spoke. “I’m not comfortable with this, but if we don’t go with you, the Master will kill us. That’s all there is to it.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she held herself erect, unwilling to be cowed by the possibility of being brutally murdered. Once again, Diaval was forced to envisage the life that the siblings had led which had caused them to be so nonchalant about such a thing.

“I _want_ to go.” Ekkert said, grinning cheerfully at his good fortune. His sister shot him a doubtful look which he completely failed to notice.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Diaval replied. “Now that we’ve got that sorted out, we need to move forward. I’m supposed to signal Maleficent and the other Dark Fey with a light from the top of the tower once I have Wilfred.”

“I can do that!” Ekkert volunteered enthusiastically. He seized a lamp from one of the dilapidated tables and lit it from the brazier closest to the door. “Go down to the dungeon. I’ll come to you. Don’t leave without me!” he chirped. Grinning giddily, the boy slid through the door and disappeared into the darkness of the staircase.

Diaval turned to Vætki. “You’re not goin’ to like this, but I have to tell you. The best way out of here, the way that we’re least likely to be caught, is through Ekkert’s tunnels under the castle. Do you know of them?”

Vætki shuddered. “Yes.”

The corner of Diaval’s mouth turned up in sympathy. “Yeah, I don’t much like them either. I’m not lookin’ forward to it, but that’s the way we’re goin’ to have to get out of here.” he said. 

It would help neither of them for him to admit to the paralysing panic that had almost overwhelmed him during his first foray into the tunnels. He forced the memory of his mind and body betraying him in the infinite blackness of the tunnel from his consciousness in favour of more immediate problems to solve.

“We need to get down to the dungeon without bein’ caught.”

Vætki nodded, biting her lower lip. “I can get us down there. Hold on a moment.” She went into the bedroom side of the chamber and rummaged for a moment, returning with a woven basket and an armful of blankets.

“To put the baby it, when we’re in the tunnel.” she replied to Diaval’s quizzical expression, “It should keep him from getting hurt or too cold. Come on.”

Having made up her mind to leave, Vætki wasted no further time. She quickly led Diaval down the stairs and back into the small gallery through which he had passed on the way to her room. Their footsteps echoed about the stone room like raindrops.

Wilfred curled into Diaval’s shoulder, looking about with wide blue eyes and gurgling softly in his grandfather’s ear. The raven man squeezed him gently, breathing in his delicate baby scent. He was unable to _quite_ believe that after all that had happened, Wilfred was alive and well, and that rescuing him had been surprisingly straightforward. 

It seemed almost _too_ easy, and the thought set Diaval’s nerves on edge. He scoured their surroundings nervously, expecting the Warlock to spring from behind a tapestry and attack them at any moment. Shushing Wilfred, he patted the child on his back to calm him. The boy wasn’t especially loud, but even his little baby coos sounded deafening within the silent gallery.

Life had turned him into quite a suspicious raven, after all that. 

As he and Vætki reached the far end of the gallery, there was a sudden loud shouting, a thunderous, percussive tumult of sound which burst around them in a vicious tide, stopping them dead with horror.

“It’s the Master!” Vætki breathed, her eyes wide with fright. “He’s in the portrait gallery!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes  
> The Warlock is speaking Old Norse. Now, I don’t speak Old Norse, not being a Viking or even from that area of the world (quite the opposite, I hail from Down Under), so I’m relying upon the internet for translations. I do apologise if I’ve cocked it up.
> 
> Nīðingr – villain, vile person  
> Ek hatþúr – I hate you  
> Hann er dauðr; hann er eigi dauðr; ek munu munu dauðr; ek munu eigi dey - He is dead; he is not dead; I will be dead; I will not die.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't honestly tell you when there will be a Chapter 16 at this stage. I have not given up - the only way I'll be leaving this unfinished is if I'm literally incapacitated or dead or something, because as a reader I know that there is little more annoying than a story left unfinished - but right now we're locked down again thanks to COVID-19 and there are lots of little people who need me to be both mother and teacher, so that has to take priority.
> 
> I will not leave you in the lurch, though. I _will_ finish this story, even if it takes me a year (I sincerely hope that it does not!).
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments and support in this, I really appreciate it. Take care of yourselves and your loved ones.

A guttural roar shook the doors.

“You never came back, you heartless níðingr! Queen of Ulstead, the mighty Ingrith, never mind where you came from!” the Warlock raged. His voice was unmodulated, louder and quieter by turns, and he shrieked like a man unhinged.

Vætki had frozen in place, rooted to the spot and shaking in mindless terror. Her face had taken on a sickly grey tone, not unlike the pallor of death itself. Her eyes were large enough to rival the full moon as she stared toward the connecting door to the portrait gallery in absolute terror.

“He will kill us.” she moaned, barely audible above the Warlock’s frantic screams.

“He’ll do nothin’ of the sort.” Diaval replied. He hooked his hand around her elbow and all but dragged the girl back the way they had come, digging his talons in to get her moving. Their feet swished softly across the floor as they slowly, painstakingly retraced their footsteps.

“Run away, hrafnasueltir, ormr, run away to your castle! There’s Lickspittle, the veslingr, with all of his promises and lies, the Erlkönig dies though he lives on, lies, _lies_! There he is in league with you, wretch!”

The Warlock’s voice was getting louder by the minute; Diaval could almost hear the spittle flying from his lips with his accusations, though they were becoming increasingly incoherent and degenerating into Nyrsta Vígan insults.

His footsteps were growing louder as he made his way toward them from the far end of the gallery. Any minute now, he would be by the door. Diaval had no desire to find out how acute the Warlock’s hearing was – they had to stop moving, lest he overhear the minute shuffling of their footfalls.

He looked around hurriedly for a place to hide. The smaller gallery was sparsely furnished, but still retained some of the long chaises and a few sculptures from the castle’s glory days. One in particular caught his eye – a large stone effigy of a crouching bear, easily four feet in height and half again as long. Though it had been placed in a prime location in the gallery, Diaval wondered briefly about the skill level of the sculptor who had carved it – the bear had an expression which looked as though it was trying to pass a larger-than-usual bowel motion.

At any other time, he might have laughed at that.

He pulled Vætki toward the bear, steering her sluggish form around behind it, and pulled her down into a crouch.

“If he comes through, he might keep going up to the west tower. He’ll be looking for me.” the girl breathed anxiously. “That’s what he does. He goes on like this, and then he comes and takes his temper out on me. If I’m not there, he’ll know something is going on. He’ll search, and he’ll find you. Then he’ll kill us all.”

Diaval held her firmly by the shoulder and stared at her with veracious intensity. “I’m not lettin’ that happen. If he goes up to the west tower, we make a run for it through there,” he nodded toward the portrait gallery, “And we get out of this castle, same as we’d planned. That soulless ollphéist will never lay a hand on you again so long as I’m breathin’, Vætki.”

A deafening bang startled them into silence as the Warlock slammed both hands into the fragile wood of the connecting door. It flew open, crashing into the stone walls either side and rebounding back again to meet the Warlock’s outstretched hands.

Vætki crouched down further and curled herself into a tight ball in the shadow of the bear statue. She covered her head with her arms, shaking violently, and buried her face in her knees, as though hoping that by making herself smaller, she would be invisible to her raging master.

Diaval held Wilfred tightly, willing the child to keep from making a sound. He shifted slightly, leaning forward so that he could see the length of the gallery from behind the thick hind legs of the bear. His eyes roved around the room, finally locking on to the forbidding shape of the Warlock, looming in the doorway.

He was a terrifying sight. There was little semblance of the vigorous, majestic prince from his portrait remaining; far from the handsome, mighty epitome of a royal heir, the man before Diaval was haggard and gaunt, appearing to be decades older than the middle-forties that the raven man knew that he was. His long blonde hair dangled in limp hanks about his cadaverous face, filthy and matted. Bloodshot blue eyes glared from within deep purple shadows, almost like bruises in the depth of their colour, and his skin was sallow, mottled in shades of grey and yellow.

There was madness in those eyes.

The Warlock strode into the room, growling and snarling at enemies which existed solely within the depths of his addled mind. As he wandered restlessly, with a definite purpose to his movements despite their erratic nature, Diaval was able to gain a clearer picture of their enigmatic enemy.

The man was underweight to the point of being shrivelled, as though his very life essence had been systematically siphoned from his body over the course of years, leaving little more than a desiccated shell behind. The odour which arose from that desiccated shell offended the raven man’s keen sense of smell. Wafting toward them, even from across the room, the Warlock emanated a stench of years of neglected hygiene. Beneath it, however, Diaval could detect a more concerning odour – that of putrefaction, the flyblown festering of fleshy decay.

The man’s tattered clothing hung upon his skeletal frame in shreds of navy silk and velvet – fabrics fit for royalty and a silent testament to their formerly sumptuous nature, befitting the Crown Prince of Nyrsta Vígi. He had clearly ignored his garments as well as his personal hygiene for many years, though curiously, he still wore the precious metal trappings and expensive accoutrements of an heir apparent.

The Warlock turned, directing his attention toward the paintings and statues situated on the far side of the room. From such an angle, Diaval was able to see the unusual shape of the man’s body clearly for the first time. Despite his emaciation, the Warlock had a pronounced hump upon his back, all the more conspicuous by his physical atrophy. It appeared to be far too large to be the result of a spinal curve – Diaval knew of a man in Ulstead who had such a problem, and his hunch was far smaller – and in any case, the Warlock stood almost erect, bent only slightly at his waist to accommodate the growth. His neck followed the natural line of his body without the painful-looking curves associated with having a hunched back.

Before Diaval could ruminate further on the nature of the Warlock’s physique, the man threw his head back and bellowed toward the rafters, a howling, inhuman shriek of unchecked hostility. The raven man felt Vætki shuddering beside him and curling herself up even tighter. He ignored the gooseflesh which rose uninvited across his body and the alarming feeling of foreboding which settled heavily in the pit of his stomach. Instead, he clutched Wilfred to his chest and forced himself to smile down at the boy reassuringly, even as the baby frowned uncertainly back at him.

It was several moments before he remembered that it was a good idea to breathe.

The Warlock howled again, bracing his ragged boots against the stone floor and forcing his entire weight against a statue near the gallery door, this one a magnificent rearing horse which had been painstakingly carved from a single block of fine Südland marble.

The statue tilted, then tipped over as though in slow motion. It hit the stones, shattering into a thousand pieces against the hard floor with a deafening crash, sending dust and debris flying throughout the room.

The Warlock laughed.

It was a loathsome, diabolical sort of sound, both hideous and horrifying in the evil it encompassed. Devoid of humour or cheer, it felt as though the man had drawn it from the depths of the underworld itself, to where it might surround the living with a miasma of phantasmal monstrosity and feed upon their unwary souls. It made Diaval feel sick to his stomach to hear it.

With a final deep, malevolent chortle, the Warlock spun about amid the remains of the ruined statue and made for the gallery door again, slamming it hard behind him. It cracked clear through the middle, a fracture running almost the entire length from floor to ceiling, but the handle held firm, separating the two galleries once more.

“His sál will heal me, níðingr! I will rise, I will _rule_ , ǫflugr!” came the Warlock’s voice from within the portrait gallery, followed by another thunderous roar of incandescent fury which shook the castle walls. 

Diaval held Wilfred closer and rocked him as the little boy’s lower lip began to tremble in earnest and his big blue eyes filled with tears. They had to move, before the baby started wailing in fright and gave them away.

“Shhh shhh, little one. Nobody’s goin’ to hurt you.” Diaval soothed softly. “He’s movin’ away again now, can you hear?”

Sure enough, the Warlock’s ranting screeches were becoming quieter again as he moved back down the length of the portrait gallery.

“Eskerrak Jainkoari…” Vætki breathed. Noticing Diaval’s confused look, she muttered, “Sorry, it’s my mother tongue – it just means ‘thank God’. I thought he was coming through the door, then, and we were all as good as dead.” She smiled weakly, hugging herself with the arm that did not carry the basket of blankets.

They must have been taken from their family, Diaval realised, and clearly they had come from another land, somewhere other than Nyrsta Vígi, Perceforest or Ulstead. He wished that he could place the language – it was not one that he was familiar with, even having spent time with innumerable foreign envoys in the court of King John.

Still, he had far more pressing concerns than the origins of Vætki and Ekkert. They were in no _immediate_ danger of being caught at least in the next few minutes, but with the Warlock still in the portrait gallery, there was also no way for them to get through to the dungeon stairs on the other side.

“Is there another way to get to the dungeon?” Diaval asked.

“There is – it’s longer, and we’ll have to go back the way we came, but we won’t have to go through the portrait gallery. Come on, we need to hurry.” Vætki said urgently, “Usually he rants and screams for half an hour or so before he comes to my room and…” she trailed off, then blinked hard and shook herself. “But we still don’t have long before he notices that I’m gone.”

She seized Diaval’s wrist and pulled him back down the length of the small gallery. The echoes of the Warlock’s ravings followed them to the stairwell, petering out as Vætki dragged the raven man upward.

“Why are we goin’ up again?”

“Járnahöll was built by madmen – it’s like a rabbit warren. The other way to the dungeons is through a room in the tower, believe it or not. You go through here,” Vætki said, pulling Diaval through the first door that they came to on the stairs, “Then through the outer doors, across the upper bailey above the main part of the castle, and there’s a trapdoor over the kitchens. You can get into the servants’ corridor and then the dungeon from there.”

As she spoke, Vætki steered Diaval through the small anteroom comprising the bulk of the tower’s first floor. A musty, unlived-in smell assaulted his nostrils, an undeniable testament to the neglect and abandonment of the castle for generations before the Warlock had made it his lair. Dirty, mould-encrusted sheets lay draped over the indistinct shapes of crumbling pieces of furniture, and piles of books rotted in forgotten piles all over the floor.

Their passage through the room kicked up centuries’ worth of dust into the air, leaving deep footprints along the stone. If the Warlock came this way in search of them, it would be all too easy to follow their path.

Diaval coughed, waving his hand in from of his face to clear the airborne dust. He held Wilfred close to try and shield him from the worse of it, though it seemed entirely pointless – the dust was as thick as smoke and just as choking. The baby squirmed, whimpering in his grandfather’s grasp, and Diaval muttered apologies under his breath as he started to move faster. It disturbed more of the dust, but he was willing to put up with a few moments of discomfort if it meant getting his grandson into the fresh air a bit faster.

Holding her tunic over her nose and mouth, Vætki led Diaval to the far side of the room and through a badly rehung door, which dangled on an angle and stuck at the top as she tried to open it. Grunting with the effort, she threw her whole weight against it once, then twice, and finally forced it open with the painful screech of wood scraping on stone.

“We don’t use this door all that often.” she shrugged apologetically, breathing heavily as she held it open for Diaval and Wilfred to pass through.

The door led outside to a simple terrace on the south side of the castle roof. A low wall, barely as high as Diaval’s hip and disintegrating in several places, was the only measure of protection against plummeting fifty feet to the hard ground below. The terrace felt as though it had been a spontaneous inclusion to the castle at a much later date; a poorly executed attempt to imbue the place with a sense of nobility and importance.

He held Wilfred close and kept a good distance from the edge, just in case. Considering that most of Járnahöll was in a state of disrepair, he trusted that the roof was no different, and was likely on the verge of collapse. He was taking no chances with the precious bundle in his arms.

Night had well and truly fallen over Nyrsta Vígi, and the crescent moon shone above them, a brilliant sliver in the still darkness of the inky sky. The stars twinkled in their millions, winking upon them as though condoning their ventures and watching to ensure their continued success. 

In any other situation, it might have been a beautiful night.

Dark as it was, the only sign of the surrounding mountains was the impression of their presence, rendered visible by the negative space which they created. The stars disappeared where the mountains stood, enclosing the caldera like shadowy sentinels.

Somewhere, Diaval thought, up on one of those sinister peaks, his Mistress waited. He wished fervently that there was a way in which he could alert her, a way to signal their presence so that she could swoop in and just fly them all away, disappearing on great wings into the night. Knowing her – and he did know her, well enough that he could generally predict what she would be likely to do in any given situation – she was probably sitting up there on the mountaintop, watching the castle. Brooding, probably, mulling over countless possibilities and making contingency plans for each and every one of them, and not getting a wink of sleep because of it.

Diaval smiled as a sudden sense of warmth filled him, tingling from the roots of his human hair to the tips of his strange man-toes. He could feel Maleficent’s presence as surely as if she had suddenly appeared beside him – did she know that he was there after all? Could he find a way to communicate with her, to tell her to come down the mountain on sweeping, silent wings and fly their little grandson away from this place?

It felt like safety. It felt like home.

And then it was gone, drawing away from him reluctantly even as he mutely willed it to stay.

Disappointed – of course nothing could be so easy! – Diaval allowed himself to be led across to the south-east corner of the upper bailey, where Vætki knelt and tugged on an iron ring. Slowly, painfully, she lifted it to reveal a heavy trapdoor. The rusted hinges creaked deafeningly as she hauled it open, grunting with the effort.

“It’s a bit of a squeeze and then quite a drop down to the floor.” she apologised, sliding down into the hole and landing with a thud and a whimper as she knocked the wind out of herself.

“Are you all right?”

Vætki coughed uncomfortably. “Yes – it’s a rough landing, you’ll have to be careful not to hurt yourself. Pass the baby down to me so he doesn’t get jolted by the fall.”

Perhaps it was best that Maleficent could not see him after all, Diaval mused as he followed Vætki’s directions – she would surely have some choice words to say if she saw him lying on his belly, dangling their baby grandson precariously by his armpits through a gaping hole in the roof.

“Stop swingin’, laddie. Do you want me to drop you? Maleficent’ll have my head.” Diaval muttered. Wilfred giggled and kicked his little legs even harder. He seemed to think it was a right lark, hanging there in midair as Vætki tried to get a solid grasp on him.

“I’m got him.” Vætki assured him at last, taking Wilfred from his grip. Diaval pushed himself up so that he sat by the trapdoor, his legs dangling over into the darkened kitchen below.

Before he could lower himself, a dim flash of light above him drew his attention. Diaval looked up in alarm, adrenaline surging, expecting to see the Warlock bearing down upon him like a demon incarnate. He tensed, preparing to defend Wilfred and Vætki, wondering in a flash of insanity just how much damage his man talons could inflict upon the average unhinged manic. Probably not a lot, but he was willing to find out if he had to.

Scouring the terrace for an approaching threat and finding nothing, Diaval looked up and realised where the light had come from. He chuckled to himself at his foolishness – the light was coming from a lantern, which had just been placed at the top of the tallest tower.

Ekkert might be a simpleton, but he could certainly be relied upon to do as he promised.

The plan was well in motion then – all that remained was to get Wilfred, Ekkert, Vætki and himself out of Járnahöll without being injured, caught, captured, tortured or killed by the Warlock before the Dark Fey attacked at dawn.

Easy. No problem. He’d once had dinner with Queen Ingrith in the presence of her mangy cat, after all, so anything else was a veritable stroll through the Moors in springtime by comparison.

Diaval could barely see into the unlit kitchen, relying instead upon the sound of Vætki’s breathing and the faint glint of cookware in the moonlight to give him an indication of the level of the ground. Sliding down through the trapdoor to the hard floor below, Diaval braced himself and let go of the roof.

He realised all too late that tensing up was a terrible idea, wincing at the stab of pain in his knees as he landed. His momentum sent him tumbling into a storage shelf, and he finished up flat on his back under a pile of ragged dishcloths with his left foot wedged in a cooking pot.

“If anyone asks, I landed as gracefully as a raven on a rowan branch.” he muttered to Vætki. He wrinkled his nose at the grimy smell of the dishcloths and threw them aside before taking a moment to rub the spot where the pot had collided painfully with his shin. 

Biting back a groan – surely he wasn’t _that_ old already? – he hauled himself to his feet and took Wilfred back from Vætki. “Enjoy the show, little man? Don’t tell your grandmother, she’ll never let me live it down.” he whispered conspiratorially to the baby.

“Uhhh-buh.” Wilfred replied. He reached up – his arms still jerky and uncontrolled in the way of the very small – tangled his hand into Diaval’s hair and grasped tightly. Delighted with his find, Wilfred tugged enthusiastically, giggling at the raven man’s squawk of surprise.

“Good.” Diaval grimaced, trying to prise the pudgy little fingers from their death grip, “I’m glad we’re in agreement.” He yelped as Wilfred yanked out a feather, which only made the boy’s giggles descend into a full belly-laugh.

“Come on, the servants’ corridor is through here.” Vætki said softly, opening a door which led into a narrow stone passage, barely wide enough for Diaval to traverse comfortably without turning slightly to his side. A rat run of sorts, he thought, an expedient way for the castle staff to make their way to and from the kitchen without having to run the risk of encountering the nobility along the way. Such was the way of the hidden workforce, shunned by those who wielded greater power by virtue of their birth, but indispensable for keeping those same masters’ lives in the luxurious manner to which they had become accustomed.

The rat run ended in a simple wooden door which opened into a dimly lit hallway. The braziers along the walls had almost all burned out in the time that he had been in the castle, but Diaval recognised it as the same corridor through which he had entered Járnahöll in the first place, about halfway along the length. Evidently not all of the nondescript doors led to servants’ quarters after all, though he would never have been able to identify the door to the rat run from amidst the others on the hallway side.

Diaval, Vætki and Wilfred made their way swiftly along the long servants’ corridor to the worn dungeon stairs, their footsteps lending a staccato rhythm to the dissonant echoes of the Warlock’s roars, louder once again from their proximity to the portrait chamber.

Vætki paused at the top of the staircase to look back down the hallway. “We have to wait for Ekkert.” she insisted, standing in the entry to prevent Diaval from passing through.

“He won’t be long. He was just puttin’ the lantern up at the top of the tower as I was comin’ through the trapdoor. We can wait down there – Ekkert said that the Warlock doesn’t go down there because of the iron.” Diaval replied, indicating the dungeon with a nod of his head.

Vætki bit her lip. “I guess that makes more sense than waiting here. Less likely to be caught.” She scuffed her boot on the floor, refusing to look at him, and remained exactly where she was. Her eyes flicked between the staircase and her shoes, her reluctance to go down into the dungeon before it was completely necessary almost palpable. She was all but shrinking before his eyes.

“Vætki?” Was she afraid of the dungeon? Having second thoughts about escaping with them? She was reticent, almost immobilized, and her shoulders had stiffened conspicuously in a matter of moments. She tightened her grip on the basket of blankets and chewed her lower lip, stoically refusing to answer him.

Slowly, though, drawn to the compassion in his deep black eyes like a moth surrenders to the light of a flame, Vætki lifted her tremulous gaze to meet Diaval’s concerned one. The tears which blurred and obscured the warm brown of her own eyes brought about his understanding like a sudden chill wind in the midst of summer.

 _They_ were down there. Sleeping beneath the cold Nyrsta Vígan soil, the warmth of their breath having passed from their tiny bodies to mingle once again with the chilly air. Her babies.

Vætki was overcome by a far more encompassing and profound emotion than mere apprehension or fear. Barely more than a child herself, but already having suffered one of the most harrowing and heartbreaking events that was possible to experience thrice over, the girl stood frozen, engulfed by a grief that for all of Diaval’s natural empathy, he could never truly understand.

He hoped that life would be kind enough to him that he never would.

“Maybe…” Diaval said softly, biting his lip apprehensively and hoping that she would take his suggestion in the manner in which he intended it rather than breaking down or being offended, “Maybe you’d like a moment with the little ones? I can stay up here if you’d be more comfortable.”

Her face contorted in grief. She bit her lower lip hard, barely seeming to notice the drop of blood welling up from beneath her teeth as she forced back a sob with a shuddering breath.

It hurt her for him to even mention them, he knew, but he also suspected that she would regret it until the end of her days if she forewent the opportunity for a final moment to say goodbye her lost children before she left this place forever.

Diaval reached over and grasped the girl’s free hand. “Go.” he whispered softly. “Go and say goodbye to them, Vætki. Please.”

She held his gaze for a moment before nodding almost imperceptibly, gradually drawing away from him and tiptoeing meekly down the stone stairs to the final resting place of her three precious babies.

Diaval watched her go, unconsciously nuzzling Wilfred’s fuzzy blonde locks and blinking back the hot tears which threatened to spill from beneath his lashes.

“I won’t ever let that happen to you.” he whispered into the boy’s hair, “Nor your mama, for that matter. You’re goin’ to grow up big and strong and surrounded by love, the best of all of us, my boy. You have my word on that one.”

He rocked the baby gently, quietly humming a low lullaby – a little song which his mother had gently warbled to him and his sisters as tiny chicks. It reminded him of comfort, of safety and warmth, when all that he needed to concern himself with was getting to his parents first when they returned to the nest with something to eat.

Wilfred snuggled into the crook of his neck, growing heavier as he relaxed and sleep began to overtake him. There was something familiar about this, though he had never held Aurora thus as a babe – at this stage of her life, he had only even visited her in his raven form. Perhaps it was more the sentiment attached to it rather than the physical feeling of the child falling asleep in his arms which filled him with unexpected nostalgia and a sense of rightness. He knew that emotion well enough; it was as recognisable to him as the tip of his beak or his glossy onyx feathers. It was his family, his loved ones, and the feelings which their presence evoked within him. Aurora chasing him about the Moors and beating him thoroughly in a mud fight. The sound of Wilfred’s giggles when he was tickled. The sight of his Mistress after they had been separated a while.

It was life, pure and simple, and the very deepest, purest of loves. Diaval relished it even as he thanked every deity, real or otherwise, for granting him the very greatest of gifts.

He smiled, cuddling his grandson close to his heart, and closed his eyes briefly to truly breathe in the moment.

A voice piped up from nowhere, “I’m here.”

Diaval, once again, nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Ekkert,” he hissed sharply. His heart had started leaping like a froglet hopped up on rye mould from the shock of the lad suddenly appearing from nowhere again. The boy smiled his vague, noncommittal smile, clearly pleased at himself for accomplishing his particular task in their rescue mission, and Diaval could not find it within himself to be annoyed at him, even if he had scared the life out of him. Again. 

He forced a more patient tone from between his clenched teeth and ignored the tingling surge of fright now coursing through his body, “You really need to stop sneakin’ up on people like that.”

“I wasn’t sneaking. You wouldn’t have heard me at all if I was sneaking. The Master didn’t hear me. I went straight past him. He was yelling at the queen painting.” the lad countered.

Diaval raised an eyebrow, noting the discordant din coming from the portrait gallery. “Sounds like he’s still yellin’ at the queen painting.”

Ekkert cocked his head in a birdlike manner which somewhat reminded Diaval of himself. He listened carefully. “No, he’s moved on to that Lickspittle person now.”

“When we get out of here, you’re goin’ to have to tell me everythin’ you know about what he shouts in there. Maleficent and I know Lickspittle, and I want to work out the whole picture here. I feel as though we’re missin’ something important in all of this.”

The boy shrugged. “All right.” He turned and trotted down the staircase, chirping a greeting to his sister once he reached the dungeon floor. Diaval followed him, mindful not to bump little Wilfred. The baby was now fast asleep on his shoulder, his soft little breaths warming the raven man’s neck.

Diaval was pleased. He had no desire to traumatise the child by having him awake for what they were about to do.

“Ekkert, you go first.” Diaval directed, “And then Vætki, you follow, pushin’ Wilfred along in the basket. I’ll bring up at the rear.”

He tried not to look too closely at the gaping black maw, waiting to swallow them whole into the cold bowels of the earth once more. It seemed even more ominous than it had the first time, an evil, vengeful presence which felt almost on the cusp of sentience. Diaval swallowed hard at the wave of nausea which threatened to overwhelm him and forced himself to adopt an expression of dogged determination to try and fool his mutinous body into believing that everything was fine.

 _Don’t be a damned fool_ , he chided himself. _Afraid of a little tunnel! Maleficent would be mockin’ you something fierce if she could see you now! “My little birdie is a scaredy-cat! Perhaps I should turn you_ into _a scaredy-cat, so that you can do it properly? Into a feline!”_

It occurred to him that he would gladly be a cat for a few hours if it meant that he could keep from experiencing the dark chill of the tunnel again. Wearing the shape of a malodorous predator and having to cough up hairballs and lick his own anus clean would be a minor price to pay, really. Especially if his Mistress was inclined to scratch him behind his ears.

Diaval shook himself, scolding himself for his nonsense. He had done this just hours before and had survived the ordeal – and that was when he was crawling _toward_ a potential and largely unknown danger, not away from it. He should be _rejoicing_ that they were on the home stretch, not trying to surreptitiously wipe away the evidence of his cold sweat.

Of course, the first time he had not known just what he was crawling into. Now he knew – he remembered, he _felt_ – the oppressive, blinding darkness, the seeping chill from those hard, unforgiving walls which constricted about his body, almost too tight to move, smothering, suffocating, crushing him, squeezing him, his heart racing, too fast, too fast, his breath coming in shallow, erratic pants, spots dancing across his vision as his head spun, stomach churning, I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die…

Diaval braced himself against the wall, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths and think about something else – something pleasant – to calm himself.

Dawn over the Moors, that was a lovely thing to think about. He should be focusing on pleasant things such as that instead. The harmonious melodies of birdsong surrounding him in the crisp morning air, the freshness and subtle floral hint of the light breeze, and the tacit promise of a perfect new day.

He pushed himself deeply into the memory of such a morning, trying to feel it around and within himself, a soothing counterpoint to the maelstrom of terror which threatened to shatter his determination and force him, trembling, to his knees. 

Diaval imagined the light as it played off the craggy Moorland peaks, bathing the landscape in warm hues of rosy amber as the sun rose above the horizon into a cloudless summer sky. He recalled the songs of the pixies, tiny and tinkling as they welcomed the dawn, and the sound of burbling water flowing along in crystal clear streams, sweet and cold and delicious.

He breathed deeply and evenly, and felt his body begin to relax.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the silhouette of his Mistress, her wings spread widely from her lithe body as she dipped and swooped above the Moors, a shadow against the pale morning sky. Her entire countenance radiated joy; unbridled delight from basking in the wonderful liberty of her magnificent wings.

She was exquisite. Dazzling. This was Maleficent as she was born to be – a creature of the wind, high above the earth and all those who dwelt upon it. A goddess of freedom, glorious in her countenance and breathtaking by her very being.

He felt his heart rate speed up again, but this time, it was not from fear.

Diaval imagined her approaching and landing before him, twirling her fingers with a lazy smile and summoning his man-shape from within him. As he settled into his human form, he marvelled at her effortless beauty – the way that her long, silky hair tumbled down her back between her gorgeous wings, the flawlessness of her skin over those chiselled cheekbones, her sparkling, resplendent eyes.

She would probably notice him staring and challenge him on it, though. Even in his personal fantasy, she would not refrain from teasing him.

_“Have you seen enough, Diaval? Or should I stand here a moment longer so that you might commit my every feature to the depths of your memory?”_

In his imagination, though, he could respond in any way he liked without worrying about the repercussions of such boldness. He could say whatever he liked, and so he did.

_“I’ll never get enough of lookin’ at you, Mistress. Lookin’ at you, or bein’ with you.”_

She would probably raise an eyebrow at him, or roll her eyes entirely. Still, he would see the tiniest hint of a blush on her cheeks at the simple, irrefutable truth of his words. Her response would be borne of embarrassment; a deeply-held belief that she was unworthy of provoking such feelings in another.

_“You’re positively lovelorn, Diaval. Whatever have I done to deserve such a thing?”_

He smiled then, leaning up against the wall of the dungeon as he eased himself from anxiety into a place of composure, his mind far away in a far more beautiful place. 

His imaginary self stepped closer to her, trailing the back of his index finger along the fine, birdlike bones of her jaw.

_“You really don’t know? After all these years, you still don’t know? You still don’t see it?”_

She lowered her eyes for a moment, before looking back up at him from beneath thick, dark lashes. Her voice was a mere whisper.

_“I see it, my raven. I see it, but I’m afraid of it. Not of you, but of all that you offer me. Again, I ask you – what have I done to deserve such a thing?”_

He had no answer for her that would be believed. Instead, he tangled his fingers in the hair behind her neck and drew her closer…

…as Ekkert’s voice shattered his reverie.

“We should go. The Master will notice that we’re gone soon.” the boy said simply.

Diaval blinked himself out of his daydream, feeling awkward at how far he had allowed his imagination to wander in the pursuit of a distraction. To his relief, he _had_ managed to calm his initial panic considerably – apparently, all that he needed to do to distract himself was fantasise about engaging in slightly inappropriate behaviour with his Mistress.

He was a tiny bit embarrassed, though. It was hardly the time or the place.

Still, if the thought of Maleficent was the impetus that he needed to get him through a panic attack in the tunnel, then he would gladly let his mind wander to wherever it wanted to go. Getting through the next few hours without becoming physically sick in the process was of the utmost importance, and he doubted that she would mind if that was what he needed.

Well, much.

He had promised her once that he would give her whatever she needed, but in all the years they had been together, it was seldom that she did not also return that promise in kind.

“Yes, we need to be goin’. Ekkert, you first.” he replied.

Ekkert pushed himself up and scurried into the mouth of the tunnel without preamble, quickly disappearing into the void-like blackness within.

Vætki lined the basket with blankets and Diaval carefully placed Wilfred on top of them. The girl wrapped the baby up tightly. “We don’t want him kicking or waving his arms around if he wakes when we’re in there – he might get hurt.” she reasoned.

Hoisting the basket into the opening of the tunnel, Vætki paused for a moment, placing a hand on the child’s gently rising and falling belly lovingly.

“They were boys.” she whispered, gazing longingly at Wilfred. “My first two babies. I called them Iáaki and Beñat. It… it was almost like getting to have time with them.”

Diaval exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry, Vætki. It should never have happened. I can’t understand how anyone could knowin’ly hurt a child, any child, never mind…” he trailed off. She did not need reminding of what the Warlock had done to her. “We won’t let him hurt you ever again.” he finished, meeting her eyes with a steadfast gaze.

The girl nodded slightly. “I can hardly imagine a life without it. Without him hurting us, I mean. It’s all I’ve known for the last ten years. I don’t think that Ekkert even remembers our lives before the Master took us. I… I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. And Ekkert… he’s another matter entirely. He’ll never be able to look after himself, after what the Master did.”

What the Master did? What had the Warlock _done_ to the boy?

Though he itched to follow up, Diaval tucked the questions that Vætki’s statement had provoked away in the back of his mind to mull over and investigate at a later, less immediately dangerous time.

“We’ll worry about all of that once we’re out of here and away from danger. But don’t you worry – we won’t leave you hangin’. We’ll make sure that you are Ekkert are safe and sound, wherever you end up. Moorfolk look after their friends.” Diaval smiled reassuringly, evoking a shy smile in return from the young woman.

The sound of the Warlock bellowing shattered the moment. “ _VÆTKI!_ ”

The girl paled. “He knows! He’s looking for me!”

“Go,” Diaval said, “We have to get out of here.” He nudged her into the hole, looking nervously over his shoulder for a sign of the Warlock’s approach as she leaned on Wilfred’s basket and began to move forward into the darkness, disappearing from his sight.

Darkness. Nothingness. If there was an unholy afterlife for the likes of him, this would be it – eternal damnation in an inky pit of oblivion.

He exhaled loudly and bit his lip. He could do this one more time. For Wilfred. For Aurora and Phillip. For Maleficent, his Mistress – for the sake of love itself, he could do this.

He climbed into the hole and began to crawl.

He did not look back.

* * *

The light in the tower had appeared not half an hour before, and now Maleficent stood on the side of the mountain, bracing herself against the rising breeze and anxiously awaiting the dawn.

It had taken longer than she had expected, considering that Diaval and Ekkert had entered the tunnel on the plateau in the early afternoon of the previous day. Her nerves remained on edge, as they had been throughout the night – even ascertaining Diaval’s presence in the castle just before the lantern had been left in the tower had failed to truly calm them.

Hope was a foreign concept to her; faith a bitter taste in her mouth.

Somewhere beneath the mountain, beneath her very feet, her raven and her grandson were making their way through an icy tunnel to safety. She had to believe that they had found their way out unscathed, and that the time between Diaval’s signal appearing and the beginning of their engagement with the Warlock had not proven disastrous.

The sky was beginning to take on the washed-out grey of the very early morning, slowly smothering the glitter of the stars in a blanket of dim light. Behind her, Maleficent could hear the rustling of the other three Dark Fey, shaking off the veil of sleep and readying themselves for the coming confrontation.

The wind kicked up a notch, bringing with it tiny flecks of stinging ice. The temperature was beginning to drop noticeably again. Maleficent shivered, finding herself descending into ruminative brooding. The last thing that they needed was a storm akin to that of the other night; out here, exposed on the side of a mountain, there was little chance that they would survive it. They could take refuge nearby if they had to – the rock formations would provide a modicum of protection – but what of Diaval and Wilfred? They would have no way of knowing of the change in the weather until they emerged from the tunnel into the cold desert, miles from shelter in the wilds of Nyrsta Vígi.

She hoped that the growing storm would blow itself out long before then.

A sudden bellow, a sound full of unspeakable rage and frenzied madness, shattered the predawn. A name and nothing more, coming from within the castle, loud enough that it echoed vociferously around the mountain peaks surrounding it like a malevolent choir.

“ _VÆTKI!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes  
> Further Old Norse translations pertaining to this chapter:
> 
> Nīðingr – villain, vile person  
> hrafnasueltir - coward  
> ormr – snake  
> veslingr – puny wretch  
> sál – soul  
> ǫflugr – strong, powerful
> 
> Also: I don’t hate cats, truly, despite Diaval’s quite understandable objections to being one. I have a cat, and she is a delightful little thing, despite her unfortunate habit of dribbling like a leaky tap when she’s content.


	16. Chapter 16

Phillip had seen this before, and the memory sent ice through his veins.

As a lad of twelve, his closest friend had been the younger son of Lord Gareth Ruthers – Patrick Ruthers, known to all who knew and loved him as Paddy. A gleeful, spirited imp who was small for his age but in possession of a precocious, larger than life personality, it was always Paddy who had led the charge, dragging Phillip from one mischievous prank to another as they hooted and whooped their days away in the Ulstead castle grounds. Paddy had hardly cared that Phillip was a prince – and not just a prince, but the heir to the throne of Ulstead – he had treated him as he would have any other boy the same age. A friend, a companion, a partner in crime. When he was with Paddy, Phillip was simply _Phillip_ , ordinary boy and hooligan in training, for the first time in his life.

And then one day, Paddy had been injured – a seemingly minor wound to the flesh just below his navel whilst sparring with his brother Lionel. Paddy had joked, of course, thanking God above and all of the angels in heaven that the injury had not been six inches lower, lest his family line be endangered, and Phillip had laughed along with him. He had sat by Paddy’s bedside, and the boys had planned all manner of payback for poor Lionel once the wound had healed.

But it did not heal. It began to fester, swelling an angry red and leeching pus, and no treatment from the court physicians seemed to help. The infection quickly reached his blood, and the mood by Paddy’s sickbed became somber and silent. Phillip watched helplessly as his friend’s temperature soared and his body shook with chills. The boy turned ashen grey, gasping erratically as he slid in and out of consciousness, until finally, with a deep, shuddering sigh, he breathed his last.

Ingrith had berated him, mocking him for shedding tears over the unimportant second son of a minor lord, and so Phillip had hidden himself at the top of the north tower and sobbed until his tears ran dry.

Now, he watched another that he loved, even more so than his childhood friend, his wife, his queen, his _sunrise_ , as her body succumbed to infection. Aurora lay still in her bed, her forehead like fire even as her hands were as cold as ice. She slept, waking here and there to beg weakly for her son, before falling back into unconsciousness. The infection was in her blood now, and there was nothing more that the physicians could do for her.

Aurora was dying, and the only person who might be able to save her was somewhere miles to the north in search of their missing son.

Miles to the north, and with no idea that her daughter’s life hung in the balance.

Phillip buried his face in his hands, whispering a prayer to the heavens, begging for Aurora to be spared. She did not deserve this – one as sweet and kind as she, who looked for the good in everyone that she met, and who wanted only the best for those who depended upon her. She did not deserve to die a protracted, painful death, and without her precious son by her side. Wilfred needed her to live. The world needed her to live.

 _Phillip_ needed her to live.

He could not leave it to chance, and merely hope that Maleficent would return before it was too late to heal Aurora. No, he had the power to have a hand in his wife’s fate, and he would _not_ sit back and wait for her to die.

Arising from Aurora’s bedside, Phillip turned to Lawrence, his steward, who stood silently by the door of the bedchamber.

“Lawrence, I need to get a message to the Dark Fey. Maleficent is the only one who might be able to heal Aurora, and we need to get word to her somehow. Hopefully one of the other Fey will be willing to fly north and find her.”

Lawrence frowned, a barely perceptible movement of his eyebrows which did not extend to the rest of his face. “What of the prince, your Highness?”

Phillip sighed, staring down at his boots, before looking back up to the steward’s expectant gaze.

“Recovering Prince Wilfred is still of the utmost importance, Lawrence. I pray that removing Maleficent from the rescue party does not affect that. She is not alone – Diaval and three of the other Dark Fey are with her. We can only hope that they can still accomplish what they have set out to do.” He bit his lip, chewing it anxiously before continuing, “Unfortunately, as it stands, Aurora may not survive to see our son returned to us, and there is only one person in the world who might still be capable of helping her now. We need Maleficent.” He gazed back at the grey, gasping form of his truest love, still but for the erratic heaving of her chest as she struggled stoically to remain among the living. Phillip forced himself to contain the tears which filled his eyes at the sight of her. 

Without turning back to Lawrence, he hung his head as though in prayer, whispering desperately, “ _She_ needs Maleficent.”

* * *

The wind had begun to howl incessantly. It blew Maleficent every which way as she perched on the mountainside, alert and alarmed, flanked by the other three Dark Fey.

The voice from within the castle continued to rage and scream, calling out furiously for the servant girl. Maleficent hoped desperately that his inability to find her meant that she was no longer in the castle at all; that she had escaped along with Diaval and Wilfred and was currently making her way through the underground tunnel to freedom.

With an earsplitting crash, the main ground level doors of Járnahöll flew open, spilling light from within into the darkness of the early morning. One rebounded against the castle wall, slamming back against the raised fist of the enraged maniac who thundered through the doorway. The other hit the castle wall and succumbed to the force of the Warlock’s blow, falling off its hinges entirely and crashing to the ground.

“VÆTKI! Where are you, you useless hóra?!”

Maleficent bristled; even considering her lack of fluency in Nyrsta Vígan, it was not difficult to comprehend the Warlock’s slur against the girl.

The man stalked into the castle grounds with the umbrage of an injured bear, snarling at shadows and throwing all manner of assorted detritus asunder in his drive to find his vanished servant.

“Vætki, where are you and that eldhúsfífl brother of yours? You ill-gotten þræll, hóra daughter of a dead húskarl, when I find you…” the Warlock snarled, the fierce intensity of his voice echoing above the wind which whipped strongly about the caldera, “Ek munu takþúr, fljóð, þú munu gersemr ek segða! Ek em þinn konungr, þú dóttir ór mold!”

Borra moved to stand beside Maleficent, the broad expanse of his wings tucked in close to his body so that he could lean in close to her ear. 

“Do we engage?” he asked, pitching his voice above the shrill wail of the rising wind. “It’s not yet dawn, but…”

“He is outside, alone, and therefore more vulnerable.” Maleficent finished. She bit her lower lip and frowned, torn as to the best course of action. The presence of the light in the tower, still flickering valiantly against the wind, indicated that Diaval at the very least had Wilfred in his care. When taken with the Warlock’s inability to find his young servants, she could only assume that they had found their way out of the castle – which left her with something of an ethical dilemma.

With Wilfred safe – more or less – they lacked an indisputable reason to attack the Warlock. Saving the baby had been their objective, and that objective – as least insofar as Maleficent could tell – had been achieved. They could, should they choose to, fly away from this place without any sort of battle, and never return.

On the other hand, as the Warlock had managed to abduct the little prince once, they could not be confident that he would not try to do it again were he to be left without any form of retribution or threat of further harm from the baby’s protectors. Without a clear understanding of his motivation in kidnapping Wilfred in the first place, it was risky to leave him and simply hope that he would not make a second attempt.

Maleficent wished that she might have a moment of Diaval’s counsel. He possessed remarkable clarity of thought, and she missed the refreshing understanding and graciousness of his kindhearted wisdom. Though she would never have admitted it to anyone (and particularly not to him, as it would no doubt inflate his already magnificent ego to incalculable proportions), she respected his opinions and was inclined to seek them, however obliquely, before making many difficult decisions. She craved his quiet steadiness and the gentle rasp of his voice beside her at times such as these.

Setting her jaw, she exhaled forcefully, putting aside her indecision. She was the Phoenix, a leader of her people, and she had to trust in herself that her decisions would be sound ones, Diaval or no Diaval.

“We engage.” she replied to Borra, throwing her voice behind her so that Udo and Shrike might also hear her, “The plan remains the same, but for the time. I do not think that we can wait until dawn breaks, lest the Warlock returns to the castle. Perhaps the cover of darkness will aid us.”

She nodded to each of the others in turn, holding their gazes for a moment as they acknowledged her words and silently pledged their loyalty to her once more.

“We have no real choice in the matter; he must be subdued. We cannot have him in a position to abduct Prince Wilfred a second time.” Udo replied sagely, his serene contemplation proving an interesting juxtaposition to the ebullient agitation of Borra, whose restless excitement exuded from his every pore. His warlike Desert Fey nature betrayed him in circumstances such as these; so eager to fight was he that his higher brain functions often took a backward step to his more animalistic tendencies.

“Borra,” Maleficent began, turning to the man beside her. His eyes gleamed in anticipation of the upcoming attack – he looked almost unhinged. “Fly around and position yourself so that you have access to the castle grounds. Do _not_ engage the Warlock until I signal you to do so.”

Borra nodded, nearly salivating in excitement, and took off in a flurry of tattered feathers for the far side of the castle. Maleficent watched as he landed on the far side of the castle wall, out of sight, and hoped that he would have the self-control to refrain from starting anything until the rest of them were ready. Though a mighty warrior, Borra enjoyed a battle just a tad _too_ much for her liking.

“Shrike, you had best get into position as well. Grow some vines over the mine shafts if you can – if the caldera has life within its depths after all – and see if you can deprive the Warlock of any potential means of escape.” 

The Jungle Fey nodded once in acknowledgement, then grinned and waggled her eyebrows at Maleficent. “You’ll let me have a go at him though, won’t you?”

Maleficent arched an eyebrow and tilted her head, giving her a truly wicked appearance. She could not help but be drawn to Shrike’s irreverent nature; the woman cared little for what others thought of her, and it served her well. “Would I be so cruel as to deny you such enjoyment? We will see, Shrike. Take up your position.”

“Yes, Phoenix.” Shrike teased, flashing a fanged grin in Maleficent’s direction. She took flight and circled around the outside of the caldera to the northernmost point, landing gracefully beside the lake some minutes later.

Udo raised a hand and pointed to the scree slope on the eastern side of the caldera. “I will ensure that Diaval has not chosen to escape in the open. If he has, I will see their party to safety. If not, I will return to assist Shrike.”

He was wise, more so than he ever let on, and had anticipated Maleficent’s instructions. “Very well.” she replied. The man smiled a sage, knowing smile, inclining his head toward her as he took off into the predawn. It was almost unnerving, and Maleficent wondered with a vague sense of unease if one of the traits of Udo’s Tundra lineage was the ability to read minds.

The Warlock still raged within the castle grounds, his tone becoming ever more savage as he searched in vain for his missing servants. The herd of horses, which had formed a protective cluster by the south wall overnight, scattered in alarm. Running every which way, the Warlock wasted no time in sending a flurry of sparks toward them, felling the entire herd in a single motion. As the horses collapsed to the ground, dead or in the throes of dying, the Warlock bellowed ever louder, ruthlessly oblivious to their suffering. The wind grew stronger with his ire, his emotions channelled into the creation of a fierce and frightful tempest.

Maleficent gritted her teeth and exhaled slowly to calm her racing heart. It would not do to panic in the face of his obvious power, even with such a chilling and callous demonstration thereof. She needed to keep her wits about her. 

Descending from the mountainside, she approached Járnahöll warily, beating her wings only as much as was necessary to keep her aloft and steady in the wind.

He was far less dangerous to look at than she had anticipated that he would have, and even more so than he clearly was. Tall but scrawny, almost wasted, and with a significant hunch to his back which gave him a peculiarly distorted appearance. Even from a distance, Maleficent could see that he was filthy and unkempt – his stringy fair hair and pale skin had a dull, greyish tone to them from layers of unwashed filth. She could not smell him from where she was, but she could easily imagine the pestilent stench surrounding him; if odour could be visualised, it would have been rippling from him in noxious waves.

Despite his begrimed features, there was something about the Warlock which Maleficent found unsettlingly familiar. She could not quite place the reason behind it, but her instincts alerted her nonetheless, lending caution to her approach. Though he was clearly Nyrsta Vígan – the pale colouring which he shared with the majority of his countrymen was a clear indication of that – and to that end, she should not have known him, there was something about his face which was oddly recognisable. She felt as though she had seen this man before.

The Warlock’s shout of pure rage alerted her to his attention upon her as she emerged from the darkness surrounding the castle.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? Have _you_ taken my servants?” he growled, his tone belying the meagre paucity of his appearance. It was pure aggression, unchecked by even the barest measure of sanity.

Maleficent cautiously came closer, allowing him to see her properly in the thin gloom of the predawn sky, though she chose not to respond to his question. Truthfully, she only had the vaguest idea of the whereabouts of his servants, and that based on hope rather than actual information. She had no intention of disclosing what little she did know, though.

His eyes widened in furious recognition. “You! You are the winged woman that Ekkert spoke of! The faerie woman!” He smirked, baring sharp yellow teeth. “The one who _ruined_ Queen Ingrith!”

Without waiting for a response, he rounded upon her above him, raising his hands, which crackled with sparks of barely contained electrical magic. His scraggly hair blew about his face, standing away from his head as the individual strands began to repel each other.

Maleficent assumed a defensive posture, angling her wings to facilitate evasive flying should the need arise. Though she did not allow it to manifest outside of her body, she subtly called forth her own magic, settling it just below her skin where it would protect her instinctively and could be drawn upon in a fraction of a second. She flew closer to the glaring, wizened man, raising her chin haughtily at him to prove that she was unafraid.

“Queen Ingrith ruined herself by waging war upon the innocent. She was never physically injured, even in defeat, and she never will be, for all that she may _deserve_ the retribution of the Dark Fey.” Maleficent responded. “Is that why you had Prince Wilfred abducted? As a dubiously-considered retribution for the fate of the former princess of your homeland?”

The Warlock laughed, a diabolical sound which sent shivers down the length of Maleficent’s spine and into the very tips of her impressive wings.

“Retribution? How narrow of you, vængr-völva. Ingrith can burn in the hellfires of the underworld for all that I care.”

“Then why would you do such a thing?” Her voice was steady, though the cavalier regard with which he held his flesh and blood perplexed her. What other motivation could he have had for taking the baby prince of another kingdom, beyond retaliation for a slight upon one of their own royal family – despite that person being the child’s own grandmother? It made no sense at all.

He laughed again, mirthless and mocking. “Why? Immortality, vængr-völva. _Immortality_. Something which you, she-beast of the untamed forest realms, will never know!”

Snarling, the Warlock reared back then lunged, sending a bolt of bright green lightning toward her. Maleficent tucked her wings against her body, almost winding herself with the powerful force of them snapping against her delicate frame, and dropped fifteen feet straight downward, avoiding the lightning by a matter of inches. She spread her wings to their full span to catch the increasing gale beneath her and slow her fall.

Without missing a beat, she surged upward again, gathering defensive magic in her outstretched palms before shooting a flash of green fire in the direction of the Warlock. As she sent it toward him, she arced around the northern side of the castle, weaving upward and downward erratically to avoid his continuing volleys.

The Warlock raised a hand against her magical blow. To Maleficent’s horror, he conjured a shield around his entire body, a translucent, shimmering orb of iridescent green, which deflected her blast with disturbing ease. It rebounded toward the castle wall, shattering the tough stone on impact.

He laughed.

“You are no match for me, vængr-völva! I wield the power of the _Erlkönig_!” With that, the Warlock sent another stream of magical lightning in Maleficent’s direction.

She ducked, falling to one side and sending herself into a dizzying barrel roll. Barely ten feet above the earth, she suddenly pulled out of the roll, blasting another fireball of magic at the Warlock as she rose back up into the air.

He parried it once again, sending it skyward, where it dissipated like viridescent smoke into the whirling wind.

Maleficent wheeled around, pivoting midair by folding one wing against her body and beating the other firmly. Again, she threw her magic at the Warlock, and again, he sent it asunder as though it were little more than a breath of air. This time, he deflected it toward her, forcing her to roll backwards and somersault around again to avoid being hit by her own strike.

The Warlock began to fire electricity at her in earnest, now, barely leaving time for breath between strikes. It was all Maleficent could do to outmaneuver him; she had little hope of striking herself, whether in defence or otherwise. She flew swiftly toward the castle towers, changing the angle and elevation of her flight without warning to avoid becoming an easy target. She could see from the Warlock’s body language that he anticipated her going behind the tower and was bracing himself to attack her with greater fervour once she had emerged from the other side.

Idiot man. She wasn’t _that_ stupid.

Reaching the tallest tower, Maleficent abruptly swung her feet in front of her, using the stone as a springboard to change her direction without warning. Using her momentary advantage, she hurled another plume of emerald flame at the Warlock, keeping her magic flowing toward him for several long seconds as he realised that she had outwitted him.

The blast struck home. The Warlock howled at it hit him in the shoulder, forcing him to stumble backward before falling to one knee. Though the wind stormed and heaved about them, Maleficent could smell the charring fabric of his clothing and hear the telltale sizzling of the man’s skin; burning in the pure flames of her protective Phoenix fire.

With a howl of furious agony, he raised a hand and erected his shield of diaphanous magic, blocking Maleficent’s efforts once again. Her volley rebounded toward the western tower, hitting the upper third with full force and obliterating the stone in an explosion of black rubble and an enormous plume of gritty dust. Shards of broken stone rained down upon Járnahöll, pummelling the roof and walls like fragmented cannonballs.

Rising to his feet, the Warlock screamed in demented wrath and flung the largest bolt of lightning yet in Maleficent’s direction, illuminating the dawning sky with flickers of dazzling green.

It missed her by inches. She swooped around behind the largest of Járnahöll’s two remaining towers, pausing for a moment to regroup.

Breathing hard, she spied Borra in her peripheral vision. He was staring fixedly at the Warlock from just above the castle wall. A devilish smirk graced his face as he raised his hands up above his head, drawing what little vegetation existed within the caldera into his power.

Dozens of vines erupted from beneath the hard volcanic soil, dancing like charmed snakes as they rose up into the air and began to twine themselves in foliate knots around the castle. They worked their way into the barely perceptible grooves between the stones, gradually shifting and subverting the structure.

The Desert Fey’s influence manifested beneath the ground as well as above. Furrows ripped through the dirt as though by giant talons raking along the soil, as Borra’s viniferous arsenal tore through the foundations of Járnahöll toward the Warlock.

The man realised his peril only moments before the underground vines burst through the surface of the earth. They wound around his arms and legs, bent on immobilising him so that Maleficent might have the chance to finish him off. The Warlock screamed in demented fury, tearing at the vines with his fingernails and whipping around in circles as he blasted them repeatedly with his magic.

“I can’t hold him!” Borra called urgently. Even from a distance, Maleficent could see how the Desert Fey was perspiring; the effort of guiding the vines to further restrain their enemy had him at the limits of his considerable strength. The Warlock still thrashed about wildly in his prison of creepers, which had begun to wilt and wither beneath the raw power of his wicked magic. It was only a matter of time – minutes, most probably – before he managed to free himself and began his attack upon them anew.

“Udo! Shrike!” Maleficent bellowed, lifting her head to throw her voice beyond the walls of the castle and hoping desperately that the natural echo of the caldera would amplify and carry her call to the ears of those who needed to hear it. 

She emerged from behind the tower and spun around to face the Warlock, building up her magic and hoping that the man was sufficiently distracted to not be capable of parrying her blow.

As she let fly with another attack, Maleficent spied a blur of red and green approaching from the north west. A bloodthirsty battle cry rang out into the early morning as Shrike made her presence known, followed swiftly by a rumbling roar of ruthless joy from Borra.

“Come, help me!” Shrike called to the Desert Fey, calling up her own redoubtable chlorokinetic powers as Borra flew up from the castle wall to join her in midair.

Together, the two Fey soared above the castle, hovering above the Warlock and joining the force of their powers in drawing life from the seemingly barren soil. A jungle of formerly dormant plant life began to explode from the ground, twisting and thickening with each passing second to distract the Warlock’s efforts to subdue Maleficent.

A sudden burst of growth told her that Udo had joined the others in their endeavour, the three Fey spinning above Járnahöll in a slow circle as their magic flowed into the ground below and amplified the life within. The castle grounds slowly vanished beneath a thicket of tangled vegetation, leaving only a circular area of lifelessness around the Warlock himself.

Calling forth every mote of defensive magic that she was able to muster in that moment, Maleficent inhaled deeply and sent a massive blast of rippling emerald destruction toward the Warlock’s feet, aiming to disrupt the ground beneath him rather than continue to fruitlessly attack him directly. Ribbons of green flame rushed unceasingly toward him from her extended fingertips, twirling about themselves like flags dancing in a brisk sea breeze as they whirled and writhed toward their devastating purpose.

The hard-packed soil beneath the man shuddered violently and exploded. 

Though she had expected that her blow would carve out a shallow chasm in the dirt and merely cause the Warlock to stumble, to Maleficent’s shock, the hole below him continued to sink downward as the integrity of subsoil eroded.

The Warlock had a fraction of a second with which to glower up at Maleficent in incredulous outrage, consumed by a surging cloud of dust and debris, before the ground below him collapsed entirely and sent him plummeting down into a dungeon that she had not known was there.

He screamed, a high-pitched, agonised scream of terror and fury, which cut off abruptly as he collided with the dungeon floor in a dull thud.

A moment of heavy silence followed. 

Maleficent slowly flew over to join the other Fey, who now hovered in midair on the barest of wingbeats, and stared down into the gaping sinkhole in the earth.

Dust and displaced soil, kicked up and caught in the airflow as the ground collapsed, continued to billow from the crater like smoke from a traveller’s campfire. The violent gusts of wind that had battered them unremittingly had almost instantaneously petered out as the Warlock had disappeared beneath the earth, and were now more of a gentle zephyr than a true wind. The breeze still swept around Járnahöll and the caldera, capturing the airborne dust, which eddied away into the lightening sky.

“Does he live?” Borra asked, his voice rough with the excitement of battle. His eyes sparkled, his very body language speaking of the euphoria he derived from combat. He seemed somehow more _alive_ , more in his element that at any other time, when he was engaged in conflict – perhaps the most warlike of an already warlike people.

Shrike cocked her head. “That was quite a fall, and onto hard ground as well. He would have been extremely lucky to have survived that.” She peered into the hole for several moments, scrutinizing with a careful eye, before proclaiming, “I see no sign of life.”

“We should not assume anything.” Udo commented quietly. He carefully approached the hole and landed beside it, using the strong beats of his alabaster wings to fan away the worst of the airborne dust.

Maleficent alighted on the opposite side of the chasm and squinted distrustfully into the gloom. The sun had finally risen sufficiently to cast a weak light across the land, though it helped little to see within the hole. Despite the visibility issue, Maleficent could see no sign of movement below them.

She had no desire to go down and make sure.

“Borra,” she called to the Desert Fey who still ranged above her, “Can you work your vines into the castle stonework and bring it down to fill this hole?”

The man grinned, giving her a little bow. “It would be my pleasure.” He raised his hands once more, gently teasing the weaving creepers onward so that they penetrated the tiny fissures in the tower walls, destabilising them by degrees. Tiny rocks began to tumble downward as the stones began to move, a low rumbling following their descent.

As Maleficent and Udo tensed to take flight, a sibilant groan emerged from within the wreckage of the castle dungeon. Their eyes met in alarm as the groan was quickly followed by an increasingly visible greenish glow from amidst the rubble. Udo wasted no time, beating his wings and lifting above the ground, though his eyes remained trained on the deep cavity below him.

“He lives!” Borra called from above, “Out of the way, _now_!” His brow furrowed in concentration, he sent a flurry of magic toward the vines, driving them deeply into the tower stonework. The gentle rumble became an earthshattering roar as some of the larger stones were freed from their places and freefell to the ground.

Maleficent leapt into the air, swooping upward and around to the south face of the towers. She shot a burst of magic toward the larger of the two, striking it low, near the base where it met the lower level of the castle. Her magic unequivocally finished the work of Borra’s vines. The stonework shattered explosively under her powerful blow, destroying the bottom of the structure. The loss of stability beneath it sent the tower toppling over in a cascade of broken stone into the open wound in the earth below it.

When the stones had settled, there was silence once again.

Maleficent rejoined her companions as they hovered over the destroyed castle, staring down into the devastation which she had wrought.

“Are we going to make sure that he is dead this time?” Shrike asked. She sounded vaguely annoyed that he had managed to live through their first effort to do away with him.

Borra snorted. “He can’t have survived that. If the fall didn’t kill him, being crushed by thousands of tons of stone certainly would have. He’s dead. Besides,” the Desert Fey added sardonically, “I don’t especially fancy excavating all of this to confirm what logic already tells us. I’d like to get home to the Moors before winter.”

“Point taken.” Maleficent replied. Borra was probably right – the chance of the Warlock having escaped death as he was buried by an entire tower’s worth of hard volcanic stone was slim, and even if by some miraculous quirk of fate he had survived the initial tower collapse, he would hardly be able to dig himself out before fatigue, injury and dehydration killed him anyway.

In any case, they could not spare the considerable time that it would take to disinter the remains of Járnahöll’s once-mighty towers, even if that time accounted for the addition of Maleficent’s telekinetic stone-levitating abilities. Unless something had gone tremendously awry during the rescue of Wilfred (and as all available evidence indicated that it had _not_ , and that events had unfolded perfectly and entirely according to plan, she had to assume as much was true even as the possibility of disaster quietly niggled at the edges of her consciousness) he and Diaval – and quite probably the two servants as well – were crawling through the south escape tunnel at that very moment. They would be expecting to rejoin the Dark Fey at the other end, and would be concerned to find them absent, especially for hours. Whether or not it was tactically questionable to assume the enemy vanquished beneath tons of solid rock without making _absolutely_ sure aside, it was time for them to go and find the others, and get the prince back to his parents.

Besides which, Maleficent was fairly confident that such an avalanche of hard, heavy, unyielding material would have managed to kill _her_ quite effectively, in spite of her magic, and she was far more powerful that the Warlock had been.

“To the tunnel exit, then?” Borra asked, extending a hand toward Maleficent with a jaunty grin and a flirtatious flutter of his wings.

She stared at it for a moment as though expecting it to bite her.

Was he suggesting that she might wish to hold his hand? Did he intend to hold her hand the entire way across the plateau? Was this some sort of Dark Fey courting behaviour of which she had no inkling, due to having grown up away from her own kind? 

What did he want from her?

Tentatively, she reached over and squeezed his hand momentarily before pulling back, somewhat flustered and extremely confused.

“Let’s go.” she said curtly, trying to mask her bewilderment and, to her own ears, failing miserably at it. She beat her wings briskly and surged upward into the air, trusting that her companions would follow without questioning her response to Borra’s overture.

As she found an errant updraft and rode it skyward, turning south on steadfast wings toward the hidden exit to the tunnel, Maleficent scolded herself for her uncertainly. Though she had yet to express it to Borra, she had resolved to take him as a mate, had she not? His overtures should therefore be acceptable to her as indications of his interest in embracing the arrangement which she shortly intended to propose to him. Rebuffing him, even unintentionally, would hardly send him the appropriate signals.

The next time that Borra behaved in a manner which would suggest an attempt to court her, she would endeavour to respond in a more encouraging fashion, Maleficent decided. Just _what_ ‘more encouraging’ entailed eluded her somewhat – she had never been especially adept at flirting – but nevertheless, she would try.

Perhaps she should ask Diaval, though considering their argument the previous morning, she could anticipate his response to such a request. No doubt he would launch into another emotive diatribe about her _settling_ for a life without _love_ and other such sentimental nonsense, and she would have to withdraw from him, push him away from her, to avoid becoming emotionally entangled in it. 

His objection to her mating Borra stemmed from concern for her welfare and happiness, typical of the raven man’s guileless sincerity. Her decision would cause him pain, but at no point had his own feelings been utilised as an argument, and a part of her was irrationally vexed at him for being so sickeningly _noble_. She loathed the way in which his kindness and unashamed sensitivity forced her to question the validity of her own decisions. Damnable bird.

It was hardly fair to ask him to assist her, considering his vehement objection to her intended union. Hardly fair at all.

Still, Diaval had managed to pick up courtly manners by observation alone during his forays into Perceforest during Aurora’s childhood; it was not unreasonable to assume that he would have observed other, more intimate interactions as well, and may therefore be able to advise her on the finer points of seductive behaviour.

Well, if he had made it out of the castle before they had obliterated it, that was.

She chided herself for entertaining such a thought. Of _course_ Diaval had made it out – _and_ he would have Wilfred with him, because when Diaval made a promise, he kept it. Some might call it pride or a sense of honour, but Maleficent knew better – he was simply a dependable, genuine soul whose existence in the world was almost virtuous, but for his association with evil creatures such as herself. Like her wings, _as_ her wings, he never faltered, and she could trust him.

He was safe. He had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More translations:
> 
> hóra – whore (I never said he was a nice guy!)  
> eldhúsfífl – ‘hearthfire idiot’  
> þræll – thrall, a servant class  
> húskarl – manservant  
> Ek munu takþúr, fljóð, þú munu gersemr ek segða! Ek em þinn konungr, þú dóttir ór mold! – I will take you, woman, you will do as I say! I am your king, you daughter of dirt!  
> vængr-völva – wing-witch


	17. Chapter 17

Cold. So cold.

Had Diaval been willing to guess at how long they had been crawling through the endless darkness, he would probably have estimated days. Weeks, perhaps. Maybe even _months_.

His second foray into Ekkert’s escape tunnels was no easier than the first, but he was making a concerted effort to distract himself, if only because Vætki was apparently faring even worse than he, and he felt that he owed it to her to stay calm.

To that end, Diaval chose not to speculate on how long it had been since he and Vætki had dashed into the tunnel opening to escape the Warlock, because it would involve focusing his awareness on the reality that they were still _in_ the tunnel – a fact which he was trying valiantly to avoid thinking about, lest he trigger another panic attack. As it was, his heart rate was entirely too high for his liking, but nothing that he attempted had managed to quiet it.

He had worked his way through several fantasies of increasing ridiculousness in order to keep himself from panicking. A somewhat sedate imagining of the turning autumn leaves on the Moors had been followed by a curious stream of consciousness involving riding a giant leaf-boat from the origin of the River, all the way down to where it cascaded down the waterfall and into the sea at Ulstead. From there, Diaval had envisioned a scenario in which Maleficent had woken to find that her wings had turned bright purple overnight. The outraged bewilderment of his imaginary Mistress had amused him for some time, though Ekkert had been rather confused as to why he was chuckling into the darkness.

Presently, he was directing his thoughts toward a lovely daydream in which Maleficent had found a way to keep him in his Dark Fey shape, a way which did not involve the sacrifice or evil which she assumed that it would take. In his imagination, he was soaring above the clouds on wings of iridescent ebony, riding deliciously warm updrafts and feeling the gentle heat of the sun on his face.

He opened his eyes to see Maleficent hovering on a spiral of rising air some ten feet away from him, her lovely wings outstretched and fluttering softly. Her long brown hair, released from the confines of her ubiquitous head wrap, danced about her angular cheekbones in the gentle breeze. She caught his eye and smiled, that sultry, enigmatic smile of hers, and Diaval’s heart skipped a beat.

 _“Do you prefer it like this? Flying as a Fey, rather than a raven?”_ she asked. Her voice had an uncharacteristically sensual throatiness to it, and Diaval could not help the smile which spread across his face at her question.

 _“I like it well enough.”_ he replied, twirling his wings to move closer to her. _“I reckon in this form, my wings might even be bigger than yours.”_

 _“Nonsense.”_ the imaginary Maleficent replied, arching an eyebrow.

Diaval flew even closer to her, close enough that he could share the same updraft, and stretched his wings out to their fullest span. _“I think they’re bigger.”_ he teased.

She adopted a haughty expression and looked down her nose at him. _“Wingspan is unimportant, Diaval. You, of all people, should know that. What matters is how well you use them.”_

 _“Sure it does, Mistress.”_ Diaval replied, his mouth twisting into a lopsided grin, _“You keep tellin’ yourself that. But I’ll bet that you couldn’t beat me to the Pool of Jewels if I were to race you there.”_

Maleficent adopted a look of mock outrage. _“You absolutely would not, you cheeky bird.”_ she sniffed, pretending to be deeply offended by the audacity of such a suggestion.

_“Yes I would. Should I prove it?”_

_“I doubt that you would be able to prove such a thing.”_ she responded. Her dazzling eyes gleamed, a prelude to some sort of mischief, and familiar enough to Diaval that he knew immediately that she was up to something.

_“Oh no?”_

_“No,”_ she said, raising an eyebrow as her expression melted into a decidedly fangy grin, _“Because I’m going to get there first.”_ Without missing a beat, she leaned backward, freefalling six feet before performing a graceful backward somersault and righting herself again. With a laugh that rippled like the clear water of the Pool of Jewels itself, she sped off toward the Perceforest border on the unrivalled might of her beautiful wings.

 _“Hey!”_ he called after her, even as he struggled in his flight from the force of his laughter.

“Why are you laughing? Are you a crazy man?” Ekkert called back to him. “I met a crazy man once. He was at the market in Konunga Heima. He called out prophesies. The people said that he was crazy. He said that I would be a horse. I liked him.”

Diaval rolled his eyes. “No, Ekkert, I’m not a crazy man. I was just thinkin’ about somethin’ that made me laugh. Vætki, how is the little fellow?”

The girl was barely audible as she replied, “He’s still sleeping. I envy him. It would be wonderful to be able to sleep through this nightmare.”

“Good, I’m glad he’s asleep.” Diaval said softly. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, ever mindful that the girl would pick up on his own fear if he allowed himself to show it, he continued, “It’s goin’ to be all right, Vætki. It can’t be too far to go now. You’re doin’ really well.”

Vætki made a noise which was somewhere between a moan and whimper. “I hate this.” she whispered.

“I know. I hate it too. Just try and think of somethin’ else, somethin’ pleasant – do what you can to take your mind off of where we are right now.” Diaval wondered if the girl actually _had_ any pleasant memories on which to draw. Her whole life appeared to be rife with suffering.

He heard Vætki sniffle. “I’ll try.”

* * *

The distance from the volcanic mountain range to the dull, nondescript area of the plains in which the southern castle escape tunnel emerged was a journey of several hours on foot, but on swift Dark Fey wings, it was less than an hour. It seemed to be no time at all before they were approaching the area in which they hoped to find the others – though finding the tunnel opening itself amid the endlessly repetitive soil and scrub would likely be a challenge.

Maleficent scanned the land below them assiduously, though she frequently deferred to Borra and Udo, whose vision was far more adept in environments such as the one in which they travelled. The Tundra and Desert Fey had a much better tolerance for glare, and greater visual acuity over distances than their Forest and Jungle cousins, whose eyes were better adapted to suit the dimmer environs of their natural homes. Borra’s ability to discern movement from as far a distance as the horizon was particularly uncanny, bordering on supernatural.

It was hardly surprising, then, that it was Borra who suddenly called for her attention, pointing at an unremarkable patch of desert about a mile ahead of them.

“I see movement!”

Maleficent followed his gesture, squinting in the bright morning light.

Yes! She could see it too – a tiny blob which moved erratically against the dull backdrop surrounding it. It stood up for a moment, then appeared to vanish into the ground again before appearing with a second blob.

 _A third – there should be a third,_ Maleficent thought, her heart quickening inexplicably as the baser parts of her brain reacted to the possibility that there was no third person still to come, and that all of their efforts had been for nothing.

For several long minutes, the Dark Fey flew in rapid silence, closing the distance to the mouth of the tunnel. The two blobs had receded into the ground – sitting, no doubt, resting after their ordeal in the tunnel – but there was still no sign of a third person.

Without warning, movement appeared at the tunnel entrance again. Closer to it this time, Maleficent could now just about discern the profile of the person emerging from the hole. She bit back a cry of relief as the dark shape in the distance climbed out of the hole and stood at his full height – all six feet of him, stretching out the kinks in his muscles from being in the cramped confines of the tunnel.

Diaval. He was safe.

But Wilfred? What of the baby?

She picked up speed, urgency spurring her on toward the others, her need to know the fate of her grandson taking over every coherent thought in her mind.

As they approached, she saw Diaval bend over to where the two siblings were seated in amongst the low tundral shrubs. There was a basket between them, she realised. An unconscious smile spread across her face as she watched Diaval pick something up from the basket and cradle it, chatting away to it with a grin all but splitting his face in two.

This time, Maleficent could not contain her cry of utter jubilation.

Diaval turned sharply in the direction of the sound. His eyes lit up and the grin on his face somehow managed to widen even further at the sight of her.

Maleficent landed heavily some ten feet away from him, almost running over the remaining distance in her haste. She chose to ignore the indignity of it, considering the circumstances, as she halted mere inches from the raven man, barely restraining her instinct to hurl herself bodily at him in unabashed elation. 

“You did it.” she gasped, her ecstatic smile mirroring his, “You _did_ it, Diaval!”

Diaval wasted no time, handing Wilfred to her without preamble, or indeed, a response to her exclamation. She held the boy as close to her as she dared, relief chasing away any remaining awkwardness that she may have felt in holding him. Now, all she could do was marvel at how wholly wonderful the child felt in her arms, her fingers tangling in his soft blonde curls, his dear chubby arms flung haphazardly around her neck as he nuzzled into her and gummed at her shoulder happily.

If _this_ was joy, this raw, unrestrained laughter of the very soul itself, then long may it live in her heart.

“You’re not… _crying_ , are you, Mistress?” Diaval teased, cocking his head to the side birdishly and grinning that infernal lopsided grin of his at her.

She sniffled imperiously, blinking away the errant moisture which blurred his wise black eyes into inky smudges. “Don’t be ridiculous, Diaval.”

He regarded her for several seconds as she tried to reign in her instinctive reaction to reuniting with her grandson, then gingerly, as though trying not to scare her, he took a step closer. To Maleficent’s surprise, Diaval wrapped his arms around both her and Wilfred, enveloping them in a fierce and affectionate embrace. He was cold from his time in the tunnel, but there was an inner warmth about him which was unexpectedly soothing.

“S’all right,” he murmured in her ear, “I got a bit teary when I saw him again too. Just means we love him, Mistress. Nothin’ at all wrong with that.”

She wanted to thank him – for understanding as much as for not teasing her too badly about it – but that would mean admitting that he was right, and she could hardly bring herself to do such a thing. It was something of a dilemma. 

Rather than responding to his words, she threaded her arm around Diaval’s shoulders – surprisingly comforting in their solid, sinewy strength – and returned his embrace. That would have to do him, Maleficent decided. Anything more than that would be far too unsettling to her already chafing composure.

A dry cough interrupted the peace of the moment.

“I’m sorry to interrupt such a delightful interlude, but we should be going.” Borra said caustically, scowling such that his face resembled a mountainside after an earthquake. “We still need to actually _return_ the prince.”

Maleficent pulled away from Diaval, heat flushing her pale cheeks a rosy pink. How could she have allowed herself to forget the presence of the other Dark Fey, not to mention Ekkert and Vætki?

She cleared her throat, returning her focus to the matter at hand. “Yes – yes of course.” 

It had taken them the better part of two days to reach their present location, if one were to calculate the hours spent flying, but that had been before they had acquired three extra travellers – none of whom were capable of flight. A frown fluttered across her features as she scrutinised each of them in turn, turning over their options in her mind.

If they flew, they could be in Ulstead by the day after tomorrow, and there was nothing to stop her from going on ahead with Wilfred. Diaval could accompany Ekkert and Vætki easily enough, though the journey on foot would likely take two or three weeks. No, she could not ask that of him, nor of them. They had been through enough, and the last thing she wanted to do was add to their ordeal.

Nor could she ask the other Dark Fey to take turns in carrying Wilfred and the two siblings. The baby was not really a problem, small as he was, but Ekkert and Vætki, though malnourished, would be. They were simply too big for such a plan to be viable. A short flight was one thing, but over the course of days, even alternating, it would prove too difficult to maintain.

Maleficent beckoned to Diaval and the Dark Fey, hoping to be able to discuss the only remaining alternative with them before suggesting it to the siblings.

“Mistress? What are you thinkin’?” Diaval asked her.

“I am trying to think of a way to return home as quickly as possible. We cannot walk; it would take too long. Carrying two all-but-fully-grown humans would prove too exhausting, even for you, Borra.” she said, her eyes flicking to the strapping Desert Fey. He opened his mouth as though to argue with her, but Shrike had better reflexes; she slapped her hand over his mouth and held it there, whispering to him to _shut up, macho idiot_.

“What would you suggest?” Udo asked, ignoring the brewing argument between the other Fey.

Maleficent grimaced. “The only feasible plan that I can think of is for me to change Ekkert and Vætki into something smaller – something that will fit into your satchel, Udo, like mice or rats. We can fly, and they can be carried more easily.”

“I can’t see Vætki bein’ too keen on you turnin’ her into a rodent, Mistress,” Diaval muttered, “And Ekkert wants to be a horse. He told me as much.”

“Not rodents then. Another creature which is small and light.”

“Rabbits?” Diaval asked slyly.

“Rabbits would do nicely.” Maleficent replied, choosing to ignore her raven’s obvious devilry. Rabbits did fit the criteria of a small, portable, not-technically-rodent creature, after all – it was a sensible suggestion. Ignoring the dramatic paling of Borra’s face, she spoke up so that the siblings could hear her.

“Vætki, Ekkert, please do not be alarmed at what I am about to do.” She raised her hand, calling forth her golden magic, when Diaval placed a hand on her wrist and tugged on it like a petulant child. 

“What?” Maleficent said tersely, shaking him off and rounding on him.

“Mistress, you can’t just change them like that! At least _tell_ them what you goin’ to do before you do it. We can’t have them scamperin’ off into the desert, frightened out of their minds, because they were humans and then suddenly found themselves inexplicably rabbit-shaped without warnin’.”

Maleficent sighed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes at the raven man’s bothersome common sense. She waved her hand dismissively in the siblings’ direction, signalling Diaval to go ahead, and adopted the most impatient facial expression that she was capable of mustering.

He went and crouched down in the dirt beside them, leaning on his knee and looking them both in the eye as he murmured an explanation in low, soothing tones. Ekkert evidently had no issue with being metamorphosed into another creature, judging by the look of demented ecstasy on his face, but Vætki was another matter entirely. Even from a distance, Maleficent could read the fear in the young woman’s eyes at the thought of being at the receiving end of more magic, benign though hers may be.

She sighed. Though Diaval was entirely capable of reassuring the girl, his method of doing so involved being gentle and kind – useful traits, certainly, but not expedient ones. If they had any hope of flying beyond the Nyrsta Vígan desert before nightfall, they had to begin their journey as soon as possible.

She was going to have to get involved. Curses.

Hitching a gurgling Wilfred up against her shoulder, Maleficent approached the siblings and Diaval, crouching awkwardly beside the raven man.

“Vætki, I promise that it will not hurt you.” she said shortly. The girl flinched and dropped her gaze into the dirt. She was a statue of solid stone, carved by the hand of terror, her hands clenching around themselves like those of a newborn babe.

“How do you know?” the young woman replied without looking up, “How do I know that you’re not telling me what I want to hear?”

Diaval spoke up, “It doesn’t hurt, Vætki, truly. Mistress has changed me into things and back from things almost daily for more than twenty years. Sometimes a few times a day. If it feels like anythin’, I’d say it’s more of a stretchy ticklin’. It’s sort of strange, but not painful at all. I wouldn’t have let her do it for so long if it was hurtin’ me.”

Ekkert poked his head over his sister’s shoulder, his face far too close to hers. “He’s actually a bird, you know.”

Diaval grinned winsomely at her. “I am, Vætki, that’s true. Maybe we could show you. Would that help, do you think?”

Vætki looked up at him in alarm, just in time to see Maleficent wave a hand in the raven man’s direction. With a joyful squawk, he dissolved into a black mist, reemerging in his raven shape and hopping forward on the ground toward her.

The girl bolted backward on all fours, her eyes like dinner plates, oblivious to having knocked her brother over in the process. Ekkert rolled away from her and stood, dancing about in circles in unfettered excitement. 

“What trickery is this?” Vætki hissed.

Diaval clicked his beak at her, the raven equivalent of a chuckle, and bobbed his head up and down in a sort of impromptu dance, showing off.

“This is Diaval’s true form, Vætki. He was hatched from an egg and grew up on worms and mice and the fruits of the forest. This is how he appeared when we met. He first took on a human shape because I willed him to do so, and now chooses it for himself a lot of the time.”

Diaval bowed elegantly. The act reminded Maleficent vividly of the time when he had performed the same dignified gesture toward another young girl, one who had come to mean the world to both of them, and she had to suppress a smile at the memory. She watched as the raven stepped back and took flight, circling above them in a tight arc. He squawked cheerfully, singing a series of chittering trills which were almost – _almost_ – musical, not that Maleficent would ever tell the vain creature such a thing. Vætki watched, wide-eyed in awe.

“Diaval, come back down here so that I can change you back.” Maleficent said.

“Caw-wa-waww-awk crrkk-ewwrr!”

She scowled at him – she could not claim to speak fluent Raven, but she knew _that_ particular vocalisation. Loosely translated, it meant something along the lines of ‘I would rather peck out my own eyeballs than do as you bid me’.

“Irrespective of the fact that you have not been a raven in days, you are wasting time that we do not have. Come down or I will change you right where you are, and you can fall from the sky for all that I care.”

Diaval swooped low, barely missing her horns and causing her to duck reflexively. Maleficent glared at his audacity and shot a jet of magic in his direction, hitting him squarely in the tail. He changed mid-air, tumbling forward in his man-shape and somersaulting twice before coming to an abrupt stop, flat on his back, some feet away. He whined a little, lying there for several seconds in a cloud of dust, but valiantly picked himself up and returned to Vætki.

“See? I’m in one piece – more or less, thanks for that, Mistress, I could have broken somethin’ – and I’m back in a human shape. It’ll be the same with you and Ekkert, I promise.” He brushed the dirt from his tunic and pants somewhat aggressively, no doubt wishing for the relative ease of preening to be able to clean himself properly.

Vætki winced, chewing her lower lip. “All right… I suppose… but perhaps I had better feed the baby before that. He’s bound to be hungry soon.”

Maleficent frowned. Was this a delaying tactic? Should she be suspicious of the girl’s motives? She found herself hesitant to hand Wilfred over, even though the child was sucking hungrily on her shoulder and whining as it stubbornly refused to lactate.

“Mistress.” Diaval said, indicating that she should give Wilfred to Vætki with a quick flick of his dark eyes. “It’ll mean that we won’t have to stop for a few hours. Go on.”

“Fine.” Maleficent sighed dramatically, prising the baby from her shoulder, his mouth making a loud pop as she pulled him away. She could feel her healing magic already tingling over the spot where Wilfred had broken blood vessels in his ravenous enthusiasm. He began to grizzle, shoving his fat little fists in his mouth with increasing desperation at the lack of forthcoming milk. 

Wasting away, the poor melodramatic darling – she had seldom seen a child with so many rolls. Maleficent handed him to Vætki, and within moments, the boy was slurping away in a shocking display of ill-manners.

No doubt that came from Phillip’s side.

“Will you change me into a rabbit now?” Ekkert grinned, bouncing on his heels as though he had already assumed the form. Unlike his sister, he had no qualms about subjecting himself to Maleficent’s magic.

“Very well.”

Maleficent flicked two fingers in Ekkert’s direction. The boy’s vapid grin dispersed into inky mist, before rematerialising into the furry visage of a somewhat scrawny-looking brown rabbit.

Ekkert’s velvety little nose twitched in wild excitement as he sniffed the air, marvelling at his suddenly heightened senses. He stomped his feet rapidly in the dirt and twitched his long ears, listening to the myriad natural desert sounds that his human ears had never been acute enough to hear.

Suddenly, without a moment of warning, the rabbit boy leapt forward and began to run, circling around them in a wide arc. He was little more than a brownish blur, his location only identifiable by the cloud of kicked up dust with followed him.

“Ekkert! Come back here!”

“Ekkert! _Stop_!”

The lad ignored the calls completely, instead making a beeline for Borra as though intending to bowl the Dark Fey over. Borra’s eyes widened in terror. He spread his wings and leapt upward into the air, barely making it aloft before Ekkert ran directly beneath him without so much as slowing down.

“Control that creature!” the Desert Fey hollered, still keeping himself above the ground in case the rabbit boy decided to try using him for target practice again. He was breathing heavily, eyeing the still racing Ekkert as though he expected the lad to jump up and start mutilating his ankles.

“It’s only Ekkert, Borra. He’s not _actually_ a rabbit.” Shrike muttered, rolling her eyes.

Diaval pulled a face. “Technically he is, though, Shrike. He’s still Ekkert – he still has Ekkert’s consciousness and his soul, I suppose – but right now he’s not just _playin’_ at bein’ a rabbit, he _is_ one. He has the senses and the instincts of a rabbit, not a human. He could find himself a nice doe in this form and have ten thousand babies, and they’d all be true rabbits, not strange-lookin’ rabbit-human hybrids. That’s how it is.”

Shrike shrugged. “I suppose you would know – I assume it’s the same for you?”

He nodded. “In any form that I take, I see the world like that creature, and I have the natural instincts of that creature. I remember everythin’ that I’ve ever been, and how it felt to be in that shape. Every one of them was different, and sometimes it was strange, but they made perfect sense when I was in that form.” The raven man trailed off, watching Ekkert’s furious circling, before continuing softly, “I’m always me, always Diaval, but it’s your inner self and your memories who make you who you are, not the body that you’re wearin’.”

Maleficent scowled, watching the trail of dust as it made another pass around them. There was something about Diaval’s insight into his shapeshifting which made her feel vaguely uneasy. Inasmuch as she knew that he remained himself, irrespective of the form that he wore, and that she was well aware that when he wore a human shape he was, for all intents and purposes, human, it was unsettling to have him confirm as much.

She was not entirely certain why that was, though.

Ekkert was still running. Surely he should be tiring by now? He had been going full-pelt since she had changed him, after all, but he was showing no indication of stopping.

Well. He would be stopping very soon, whether he liked it or not.

Maleficent mentally calculated Ekkert’s future position as she raised a finger, pointing it at a spot about twenty feet ahead of him, and let loose a narrow stream of magic. She smiled slightly, cocking her head in smug satisfaction as Ekkert-the-rabbit ran straight into her oncoming magic and sailed upward, his little legs pounding madly against nothing but air and spinning him in circles as he floated.

“Should I change you into a worm, Ekkert? Or perhaps a nice fungus? Something lacking in legs, so that you might stay in one place, perhaps?”

The boy stilled, the baleful look that he directed at Maleficent obvious even in a rabbit form. She smirked at him, then levitated him over to her and plucked him from the air.

Holding the rabbit up to her face, she stared him straight in the eyes and said firmly, “You will go into Udo’s satchel, and you will remain there until I remove you from it. Do you understand me?”

Ekkert squeaked.

“Good.” Maleficent replied. She strode over to Udo, who was trying valiantly to suppress a chuckle, and deposited the rabbit boy into the satchel at his hip. “Stay.” she instructed Ekkert, fixing him with her most imperious glare. The rabbit twitched his nose at her, not in the least bit intimidated.

Borra landed with a thump some distance away, giving Udo a wide berth and growling low in his throat at the jerking satchel. The rumble was such that Maleficent could have sworn that she felt it throughout her body.

Turning to Vætki, Maleficent forced a smile, though Diaval’s alarmed expression and the subtle slitting motion of his finger across his throat told her that it was probably not having the reassuring effect that she had intended.

“Are you ready, Vætki?” Diaval asked, using his nicest smile as a counterbalance to the rather sharp and fangy one of his Mistress. He held out his hands for Wilfred, now full-bellied and as cheerful as his mother in the springtime. The boy grinned toothlessly at his grandfather and gurgled.

“You’re not going to turn him into a rabbit too?” the girl asked warily. She raised a hand to shield her face as a strong gust of wind blew a spray of dirt toward them.

Diaval shook his head as he wiped the grit from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wouldn’t be a good idea. Baby bunnies are even more helpless than human ones, and we can’t have gotten this far only to accidentally squash him. And he’s little enough to be carried anyway.”

“Borra, Udo, Shrike and I will take turns in carrying Wilfred.” Maleficent confirmed, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Now, ready yourself.”

Vætki appeared to shrink into herself even before Maleficent had touched her with her magic. It did not dissuade the Dark Fey, however, and within moments, Vætki had transformed into a second brown rabbit. She was slightly larger than Ekkert, but just as emaciated, her ribs clearly visible beneath her patchy, lacklustre fur. Maleficent might have been inclined to call her pathetic, had she been slightly crueller an individual.

The first thing that she would ensure once they reached Ulstead was a decent meal for the siblings, before they expired from starvation entirely.

Without missing a beat, Maleficent scooped Vætki up, ignoring her petrified wriggling, and dropped her into Udo’s satchel with her little brother. The rabbit girl squealed in terror, ignoring Ekkert’s cheerful chitters as he welcomed her.

“Mistress,” Diaval said quietly, coming up behind her and offering her the baby, “Perhaps it’d be best if you changed me into a rabbit as well. It might help to keep Vætki from panicking, and stop Ekkert from climbin’ out of the satchel and fallin’ to his death,” Diaval paused as the rabbit boy squirmed his way out of the satchel flap and tumbled earthward, saved only by Udo’s lightning reflexes, “Like that. What do you think?”

“A wise suggestion. How unusual. But then, I suppose it has been a rather unusual few days.” she teased. Diaval rearranged his expression into one of mock offence, narrowing his eyes at her and pouting. The expression made his beaky nose even more avian in appearance than usual.

Maleficent countered with a carefully cultivated offended look of her own, stopping short of sticking her tongue out at him (tempting though it was to do so). Diaval’s pout softened, melting into a warm smile which somehow drowned out the rest of the world.

Mesmerised by the impossible depths of his eyes, she slowly raised a gold-emblazoned hand to change her raven’s form. Before she could send her magic toward Diaval, however, she found herself interrupted by Shrike at her side.

“I don’t mean to be alarmist, but I think the volcano is erupting.” the Jungle Fey said nonchalantly, as though discussing nothing more important than the shape of the clouds in the sky. She motioned toward the north. “Either that or we somehow managed to set solid stone alight.”

Four heads turned toward the mountain, which had indeed begun to spew a thin spire of ash into the atmosphere in the short time since the Dark Fey had left it. Some way above the volcano, the ash swirled about as the wind caught it, circling the caldera in a wispy grey ring.

“Oops.” Shrike smirked.

Diaval fixed Maleficent with a deprecating stare. “You woke up the volcano?” he asked impertinently, gesturing tetchily toward the spiraling smoke. “Really?”

“We did _not_ wake up the volcano.” she snapped, “It was merely an extremely uncanny _coincidence_.”

“An extremely uncanny coincidence that the volcano has come to life after we tore up the crater with vines and collapsed the castle into the ground? Sure. I’m convinced.” Shrike said dryly, pulling a face at the volcano.

“You _collapsed_ the _castle_? I let you out of my sight for one lousy stinkin’ night and you start demolishin’ buildin’s-”

“And that’s quite enough from you.” Maleficent said testily, waving her hand at Diaval. He opened his mouth as though to protest, but rapidly shrunk into a cloud of mist. Moments later, he reemerged as a sleek jet lop rabbit with liquid onyx eyes. Glaring eyes, though Maleficent chose to ignore how obvious Diaval’s indignance was even in the form of a small furry creature.

Mercifully, considering that the entire point of his being a rabbit was to keep Vætki from becoming too frightened, the ravenness which followed each of his forms had not manifested in his facial features – Maleficent had been quietly concerned that Diaval’s rabbit form would have a sharp black beak. Instead, Diaval-the-rabbit sported a tuft of opalescent feathers on his head between his silken ears, almost like a crown, and a similar tuft where one might otherwise find a fluffy little tail.

Picking him up, Maleficent muttered, “Aren’t you adorable?”, plopping him into Udo’s satchel before he could sink his razorlike incisors into her finger in response.

Walking over to the basket on the ground, she quickly decided that it could be left behind – it was a cumbersome shape to be carrying through the air – but the blankets would prove invaluable in keeping Wilfred warm as they flew. She wrapped him tightly in one of them and tried to jam the other into her own satchel on top of the remaining food that she had brought from Konungr Heima. 

It barely fit, so she wove a quick enlargement spell into the inside of the satchel, watching the food and Lickspittle’s small leatherbound journal that she had pilfered at the Erlkönig’s former home tumble into the interior with a small hum of satisfaction. She shoved the blanket back in, noting that it now fit perfectly now with room to spare, and the exterior of the satchel gave no indication that it was anything more than it appeared to be. Perfect.

“Let’s go.”

The four Dark Fey, Maleficent still clutching baby Wilfred firmly to her breast, took off into the air and began a flight toward the south, veering ever so slightly to the east in order to eventually go around the northern Moors. With four pairs of broad, robust wings, they quickly fell into a gruelling pace, but as far as Maleficent was concerned, wearing themselves out was entirely worth it if they made it to the Nyrsta Vígi - Lur Maiteak border before nightfall.

Behind them, unnoticed, the volcanic ash cloud thickened and expanded, casting a growing shadow across the plateau and swirling ever faster around the caldera like an ominous summer tempest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the immortal and somewhat-twisted-for-my-own-purposes words of Willow in the Buffy The Vampire Slayer episode 'Once More With Feeling'...
> 
> "This (Chapter) here is mostly filler..."
> 
> I made a quick Photoshop of Rabbit!Diaval, though. It can be found on my Tumblr - https://of-the-moors.tumblr.com/post/626838870031482880/a-sneak-peak-as-it-were


	18. Chapter 18

Though night was some hours away from falling, Maleficent had to concede that it was time to stop.

Wilfred grizzled irritably in Borra’s uncomfortable grasp, gnawing on his little fists and whining with hunger. He arched his back, catching the Desert Fey unawares, and he fumbled for a moment before steadying his grip on the increasingly fussy child.

Borra flashed a wearied look in Maleficent’s direction, flicking his eyes away from her as he read the impatience in her gaze. Wilfred was only a baby, for heaven’s sake, and he was hungry. Of course he was fussing and carrying on.

They had passed the Nyrsta Vígan border about an hour previously and were well into the rugged kingdom of Lur Maiteak, making their way across the sparsely forested territory below them in surprisingly good time. They had flown hard, and though all of the Dark Fey were weary, none were willing to admit as much.

The landscape had changed subtly over time, as the monotonous flatness of Nyrsta Vígi gave way to rolling foothills and dramatic waterfalls, fed by the moisture-rich mountain ranges which dominated much of the kingdom to the north-east. The vibrant green of Lur Maiteak, punctuated with wooded copses and natural autumnally shaded colour variations stood in stark contrast to the barren sameness of Nyrsta Vígi; it was very nearly as beautiful as the Moors themselves.

The ambient temperature had also increased with each hour of southerly flying, reminding them all that it was, indeed, still summer. Below them, vividly coloured butterflies the size of dinner plates flitted through the lush leaves of the treetops, a spectrum of blues and purples, joyful in their ephemeral lives beneath the loving warmth of the sun. Herds of cervine animals bolted on hearing their approach, leaping gracefully over hill and dale and making protective circles around the young ones they had borne in the recent spring.

Diaval had evidently managed to keep Ekkert from falling headlong out of Udo’s satchel in the hours of their confinement, and though Maleficent had little inkling as to how the three rabbits had managed to pass the time, she did know that they were all still alive, well, and apparently not in a state of panic.

Wilfred had slept for a good part of the journey, even as he had been passed from Maleficent to Udo, then to Shrike and finally to Borra, but the boy had awakened hungry some time ago and was only becoming louder with each passing minute.

Maleficent shook her head, angling her wings to lower her altitude to just above the level of the treetops.

“Shrike,” she called to the Jungle Fey, “Will you scout ahead for a place to make camp, please?”

Shrike nodded in acknowledgment and began to circle the terrain, looking for a location in which they might rest in relative safety. The countryside appeared to be very sparsely populated, but they were strangers in this land, and after all that they had been through already they could hardly be too careful.

Maleficent flew closer to Borra, who was struggling with a writhing Wilfred. She held out her hands for the child, who was unceremoniously dumped in her arms. 

“I don’t think he likes me very much.” Borra grumbled.

“He’s just hungry. Once Shrike finds us a place to land safely, I’ll change Vætki back and have her feed him.” 

Though she would hardly have considered herself the maternal of creatures, Maleficent found the discomfort that Borra appeared to feel with Wilfred somewhat unsettling. The Desert Fey possessed many admirable qualities which would be beneficial to their offspring, but his demeanour toward the baby made her wonder if she would be undertaking the majority of the childrearing alone.

No, not alone. There would always be Diaval, even if he existed on the periphery of her life as a result of her mate’s resentment. She knew him better than to assume that he would abandon her entirely, even if she advised him in no uncertain terms to leave – no, there was every chance that he would step in where Borra was inclined to step out, and help her to raise her children in the ways that their father was unwilling to do so. 

If his devotion to Aurora had proven anything, it was that Diaval claimed his children in his heart, irrespective of the seed which began them.

“Maleficent! Over here!”

Shrike had found a small knoll in the middle of a small meadow, upon which a single colossal hornbeam tree grew. The roots penetrated above the earth like ripples on a lake, surrounding a trunk so thick that the joined arms of each and every one of them would still fail to circle it. The tree rose some twenty feet into the sky, heavy with densely leaved branches, providing both shelter and some measure of protection against possible attackers.

As Maleficent landed beside her, Shrike sent a stream of magic toward the tree roots. They began to pull away from the ground, lengthening and thickening as they curled and wove about each other. Within a few minutes, the Jungle Fey had created a cave-like shelter at the base of the hornbeam, large enough to accommodate seven with relative ease, and solid enough to keep any inclement weather from bothering them as they slept.

“Lovely.” Borra remarked snidely as he touched down, “All it needs is a nice garden out the front and we can move right in.”

Udo gave a Desert Fey a sideways glance and waved a hand at the shelter. Dozens of tiny bell-shaped lily-of-the-valleys burst from the ground around it, carpeting the entire area in a blanket of green and white. “Is that better?”

Borra sneered at him. “Nobody likes a smartar-”

“Udo, please let our rabbits out of the satchel.” Maleficent interrupted.

Alarmed, Borra leapt back into the air and flew to the top of the hornbeam tree. “I’ll keep watch for the moment.” he called back down to them, glaring at the satchel as Udo carefully tipped their three remaining companions onto the grass.

Three deft flicks of Maleficent’s wrist saw Diaval, Vætki and Ekkert rematerialise into their human selves. The latter grinned manically, examining his own hands and running them through his hair in search of long ears.

“That was fun! Can I be something else now?”

“No.” Maleficent handed Vætki the baby, who was now beginning to cry in earnest. “Please feed him before he resolves to eat one of us instead.”

Vætki sat amid the gently swaying lily-of-the-valleys and skillfully silenced Wilfred, who suckled as though he had not seen a breast in days. 

“Diaval,” Maleficent muttered to the raven man, drawing him aside, “Has she fed him this whole time?”

Diaval nodded. He looked stricken, his lips pulled into a thin line and his deep eyes narrowed in pain. “There are three little babies buried under that castle who shouldn’t have had to die, Mistress. Her wee daughter couldn’t be more than a few weeks in the next world.”

“ _Three?_ ” Maleficent looked away for a moment, gathering herself. “Gods, she is hardly more than a child.” Her voice shook more than she had anticipated.

“Shh, don’t upset her, it’s upsettin’ enough as it is.” Diaval hushed her and pulled her further from Vætki so that the girl would be less inclined to overhear them.

“I assume that the Warlock sired them?”

“Sired them and killed them, but for the last one. She died of disease, or so Ekkert told me.”

“ _He killed his own children?_ ” Maleficent hissed in horror.

Diaval fixed her with a penetrating stare. “He _started_ them, Mistress. That doesn’t make him their father, and it doesn’t make them his children. He was no father at all.”

Maleficent studied him for a moment. His honest, expressive face spoke of the truth of his perception, his understanding, and ultimately, his pain.

If he was a father to Aurora, despite having no hand in begetting her, then it followed that one could begin a life without truly being any kind of father. Diaval, having claimed as his own the child of another, understood that better than most.

There was something about his posture, though, or perhaps the haunted look in his inhuman eyes, which made Maleficent question whether her raven was keeping something from her. She would have to question him at a later time, when they were alone, and he felt comfortable enough to lower the instinctive defences that he raised around others as a token measure of personal protection.

She returned her attention to Vætki, suddenly looking upon the young woman with greater respect and empathy. Despite having experienced true horrors and immeasurable grief, she radiated an inner strength which Maleficent found quite remarkable.

Vætki smiled wistfully at Wilfred feeding ravenously, no doubt thinking of her own lost little girl who had so recently occupied such an intimate space in her arms.

They both loved the child of their enemy, Maleficent realised. For both of them, something truly beautiful had come from one who had done them harm, though in Vætki’s case the ending had been a tragic one.

Perhaps, despite being vastly different creatures, they were not so different after all.

Diaval moved back over to Vætki, seating himself beside her and gently tickling Wilfred’s little toes.

“Are we staying here tonight?” she asked him.

“I’m guessin’ so. Even the Dark Fey can’t keep goin’ forever.” The raven man looked around them at the scenery. “It’s a nice enough place, at least. You can come down now, Borra!” he called to the Desert Fey, still perched in the uppermost branches of the tree. Borra snarled.

“Will we be safe here, though? What if the Master catches up to us? He might still try; it’s over a week until the full moon. He still has time…” Vætki trailed off, cuddling Wilfred closer to her.

“He’s dead.” Borra announced in a victorious tone, landing with a dull thump beside them as he descended from the tree in light of the sudden lack of rabbits. Diaval twitched his nose at him impishly.

Vætki eyed him with careful suspicion. “Dead? Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be without seeing his mangy corpse. Maleficent and I threw a tower on top of him.” Borra replied. He puffed out his chest and folded his arms across it, looking rather pleased with himself for his part in such wanton destruction.

“I still can’t believe that you did that.” Diaval muttered, sprawling back into the grass and shaking his head. It seemed to Maleficent that he was mere minutes from tutting like an umbrageous old woman, the ornery fusspot. It was not as though it was an especially _valued_ castle, after all.

“What is important about the full moon?” Udo asked, returning to Vætki’s somewhat incomprehensible statement.

“It was important to his plan.”

“He had a _plan_.” Ekkert interjected. His face was the picture of seriousness; a curiously incongruous contrast to the fact that he was rolling himself down the hillock like a gleeful toddler.

“He never told you the plan.” Vætki muttered.

“No, but I knew he _had_ one.”

The girl bit her lip, her shoulders slumping in defeat. It was clear that she had little desire to discuss the man who had done so wrong by her, but it was equally obvious that she understood their need for the information which only she could provide. “The Master was dying. That hump on his back – it wasn’t a part of his body. It’s where he got his power from, but his body was rejecting it.”

“That’s why he smelled so bad!” Ekkert added helpfully from the bottom of the knoll.

“It was dying, and so was he. He wouldn’t have lasted another month. He was going to use the baby to save his own life.” Vætki whispered.

Maleficent’s eyes reflexively flashed a chilling luminescent green at her words, the magic within her leaping to the bidding of her basest desires.

Forcing the primal instincts of her wild Fey nature into submission – it would not do to kill the messenger, even if the girl had had a hand in delivering Wilfred to the Warlock in the first instance – she instead snarled a single word.

“ _How?_ ”

“At the full moon, he was going to sacrifice the baby, and use his blood to save himself. Something about transferring the magic from the hump into his own body, so that he could remove it before it killed him.”

“I’ve heard of such sacrifices.” Udo recalled with an air of quiet sapience, “Supposedly it is the only way to make a non-magical creature magical itself – but why Prince Wilfred? Why not – if you will excuse me saying so – one of you? You were already there.”

“It had to be the baby. Because he is young, and completely innocent, but mostly because of who he is. Who his _parents_ are. The Master said that he carries the blood of his father, which would strengthen the sacrifice.”

“Well of course he does. We all do. We carry the blood of our fathers and our mothers alike.” Borra sniffed, barely refraining from rolling his eyes.

“He meant his _own_ father. Not Prince Phillip. He meant King Hroáldr.” Diaval said, making eye contact with Maleficent, who found herself frowning in growing consternation. “That’s right, you don’t know, do you? I haven’t had the chance to tell you yet.”

“Tell me what?” she asked curtly.

“Who the Warlock was. Or more specifically, who he was before he went and turned into a ravin’ magical monster.”

“You learned this?”

The raven man nodded and fixed her with a plaintive stare and exhaled loudly. “I did, in the castle.” He paused, chewing his lip, then continued grimly, “Before he was the Warlock, he was Prince Fritjof, Mistress. Queen Ingrith’s lost brother.”

It was several heartbeats before she spoke.

“ _Prince Fritjof_? Are you sure?”

“Positive. There was a portrait of him in the castle. He looked just like Ingrith – well, as a human, anyway – and it said his name on the plaque beneath.”

Maleficent’s thoughts were racing. “That would explain almost everything – why he disappeared and where he has been all of these years. His targeting of Wilfred – he had motive. The descendent of his father, his own great-nephew, certainly would give the blood sacrifice more power. What it does not explain, however, is how he came by the ability to use magic by way of some sort of appendage in the first instance.”

“The hump.” Borra confirmed.

“Indeed. Where did the hump come from? What was it before it was attached to him?”

Vætki shuddered. “I saw it when he… when he was without his clothing.” Shrike leaned over and squeezed the girl’s shoulder in quiet compassion. None of them had any inclination to explore the details of how and when Vætki had witnessed such a thing.

She continued, however, steeling herself against the memory of the painful details. “It was flesh, though different to the flesh that was truly his. It had almost a golden sheen to it, as though it was glowing. I never looked especially closely, but it looked like a separate person entirely, clinging to his back. Stunted, without arms or legs, and without a proper head either, but what was there looked like a starving torso.”

“And it was killing him? Perhaps we simply should have waited a few weeks.” Maleficent commented laconically, kneeling and casting a glance toward Diaval.

The raven man showed no sign of having heard her, clearly preoccupied with a thunderclap of realisation. His mouth fell open slightly as an expression of horror slowly overtook his face. 

“ _A separate person entirely_ … sweet mother of Huginn and Muninn.” he muttered, wide-eyed. “Mistress, do you still have that journal? The one you stole from Lickspittle?”

Maleficent frowned and opened her satchel, pulling out the blanket and dropping it beside her. Thanks to her enlargement spell, she had to rummage quite deeply, and after several minutes of rifling through disintegrated pastries and bruised apples, she conceded defeat and upended the entire contents onto the grass.

Diaval snatched the little leatherbound journal up from where it had fallen and began to flick through it feverishly, sending tiny fragments of flaky pastry flying. He finally came to the entry he sought and held the book up, pages outward, so that his companions might see it.

“See this? That pixie lunatic was sewin’ bits of different animals together for years. What if he really _did_ this, like he’s drawn here? What if this isn’t some sick theory of his, but somethin’ that he’s written down _as he’s done it_?”

Maleficent snatched the journal from him in horror, her eyes roving across the page. “You think that Lickspittle sewed Prince Fritjof to the body of another? Why would he do such a thing? What could he have hoped to accomplish?”

Diaval’s eyes were wide, his brow furrowed in uncomfortable understanding. “Givin’ the powerless power.” 

She sat bolt upright, staring straight at Diaval in shock, “When he attacked, he bragged that he wielded the power of the Erlkönig. You don’t suppose…?”

“If his arms and legs were in a jar in the northern Moors, then the rest of him had to be somewhere, Mistress. Maybe Fritjof was able to use the Erlkönig’s power because for a while there, they were all but the same man.”

* * *

“Your Highness?”

Phillip looked up from Aurora’s sleeping face to acknowledge Lawrence’s presence.

“A representative of the Moorland Dark Fey has arrived.” the steward informed him. He stepped aside to reveal the young Tundra Fey girl behind him. She inclined her head in greeting, fixing her startling grey eyes upon him in the confident, undaunted manner of her kind. It mattered little to this Fey girl that Phillip was the crown prince of a powerful kingdom.

“Your Highness. My name is Eira of the Tundra Fey. I have come to take your message to the Phoenix.” she said in a soft, almost melodious voice.

Phillip stood and approached her, his full height making him all too aware of how _small_ this Fey girl really was. The top of her head – horns notwithstanding – barely reached his chest. She could not have been past her early teens, still possessing the straight lines of a child, her sharp Fey cheekbones somewhat obscured by the youthful roundness of her face. Though her colouring was entirely different – her wings a feathered melange of warm and cool whites, her snowy hair elaborately braided and her pale blue eyes made all the more dramatic by the rich bronze of her skin – Phillip found himself gaining a sudden insight into how Maleficent might have looked as a young girl.

He also wondered if her parents knew where she was.

“I mean no offence in asking this, Eira, but… how old are you?”

The girl pulled herself up to her full, unimpressive height. “I will be fourteen years this coming winter.” She raised an eyebrow at him, reminding him disturbingly of his mother-in-law. “But there are few who can fly as fast as I.”

“Your parents?”

“On the border, preparing to defend the Moors. They are aware of this mission.”

“Surely you understand my reservations in asking this of a thirteen-year-old child?”

She nodded, but replied confidently, “I understand, but I am the fastest of the remaining Fey. I will deliver your message to the Phoenix.”

“Very well. They were headed north, toward Nyrsta Vígi, though they are a number of nights ahead of you. God willing, they are already on their way home, but even if not, we need Maleficent back here as soon as possible if Aurora has any chance of survival. Please… it pains me to ask this of you, but I need Maleficent found.”

Eira nodded slowly, acknowledging Phillip’s words.

“I will do my best, Your Highness.”

* * *

_the satyr escapped last nyt never mind. i am konfident of suksess even without a final experrament. today the boy prins fritjof and the erlkennig will becum wun._

_i beggan as i had with the fox and the ~~calla~~ caladrius i have littel magik but i do poses enuf to keep my subjekts alyv for a short tym. the fox was abel to both fly. and take ~~dazez~~ dizeez from the ill fritjof himself in this case. the silly boye took up with the hulder reiðhjól. and cort a nice case of siffalus. my hybrid wingged fox took his illness before dieing itself, the boddy of the fox. haveing rejekted the winggs of the caladrius after 3 munths._

_i beleev that i have fownd a way to ~~pervent~~ prevent this rejekshun._

Maleficent paused and put the journal down in her lap, reaching up to massage her temples and grimacing at the golden summer light of the early evening. Lickspittle’s atrocious spelling and punctuation was enough to give any being a headache, but coupled with his barely legible handwriting, she was having an awful time of trying to read his words before it became too dim to read them at all.

Ekkert’s cacophonous whoops wafted toward them from the small meadow beside the knoll. He had been running up and down for a very long time, Maleficent thought. Did the boy never tire?

His sister did, clearly – she had curled herself up against the trunk of the hornbeam tree and was watching her brother’s antics with a weary, defeated look on her face, as though she had realised that trying to corral him was both a pointless and exhausting exercise, and as such she had resolved to merely wait his energy out.

Maleficent squeezed her eyes closed for a few moments, willing her head to stop pounding, and returned to Lickspittle’s journal.

_fritjof ran a sharpp stik throo the hed of the erlkennig. when he was not looking. i did not let his brayn die butt I cut away the parts of his brayn wich gayv him thort. i also cut off his limms. they wood get in the way. i then kept the boddy alyv using my magik and preparrd fritjof._

_i cut away the skin on his bak. he screemed but then lost ~~cunsh~~ conshessness. i cut away the erlkennigs skin on his stummik and stiched them to each other. i sent magik into them to forss them to ~~fyuz~~ ~~fooz~~ be together._

_fritjof allmost dyed and was verry ill. for menny weeks. he slowly got strongger and wen it was kleer that he wood live. he beggan to try to use the erlkennigs magik._

“Well, that rather emphatically answers _that_ question.” Maleficent muttered.

“Which question is that?” Udo, sitting opposite her beneath the tree, asked curiously. He dandled Wilfred on his lap, holding the baby steady as he balanced on his sturdy little legs. “You’re a strong little fellow, aren’t you?”

“Prince Fritjof obtained his power through an unholy fusion between himself and an Elf King, facilitated by a sociopathic pixie of my previous acquaintance.”

“Ah. I see.”

“I can only assume that the fusion was not as successful as Lickspittle originally believed. Fritjof was dying, and from what Vætki has told us, believed that he could save himself by using a sacrifice – Wilfred – to transfer the Erlkönig’s magic to own body properly.”

“Allowing him to remove the decaying body of the Erlkönig.”

“Exactly.”

Borra, seated beside Maleficent with his wings spread behind her in an exaggerated display of possessiveness, leaned over her shoulder to examine Lickspittle’s detailed – and somewhat gruesome – sketches of the procedure as he had performed it.

“He’s quite the artist, that pixie.” he remarked. “You can almost _smell_ the bloodshed.”

The Desert Fey was not wrong. For all that Lickspittle lacked in the mastery of the written word, he made up for in spades with illustrative ability. He had even managed to capture the expression of blinding agony on Fritjof’s face as his back was sliced open with what appeared to be a bronze eating knife, whet to deadly sharpness.

Maleficent turned to meet Borra’s gaze, flinching at his unfamiliar proximity, as he continued, “You can understand how the bitch queen was drawn to him, though. They’re two of a kind. Neither owns a conscience. They’re made for each other.”

“Ironic, then, that Lickspittle’s unconscionable experimentation prior to their meeting could have led to Ingrith’s grandson’s death.” she replied.

“You have to wonder if she would actually have cared.”

Maleficent narrowed her eyes at him. “Though it may astound you, I believe that Ingrith would have cared very much.”

“How so?”

“She is a genocidal maniac, but her justification for all that she did was ‘for the good of Ulstead’. The death of the first-born son of the Crown Prince would have mattered very much, in that case.”

“Such a lovely, grandmotherly woman.” Shrike muttered sarcastically, striding up beside Udo with a full skin of water and swigging it as she sat down, “My grandmother could have learned so much from her wonderful example.”

“Don’t besmirch your grandmother like that, Shrike.” Borra countered. “I liked her. She always had spiced amaranth cakes for me whenever I flew by as a boy.”

“Oh, they were the _best_ , weren’t they?” Shrike grinned.

“Especially when she added honey to them. They were almost too sweet to eat. I always wished for a grandmother like yours.”

“Really?”

“My only surviving grandmother was a shrew.” Borra muttered distastefully.

“Fair enough. Lanius would have been only too happy to adopt you, you know. The more the merrier.”

Borra laughed. “She didn’t have enough grandchildren between you and all of those brothers of yours?”

“Of course not. She would have gladly called you grandson. Or birdbrain. Whichever suited the most at the time.” Shrike ducked as Borra lobbed a clod of dirt in her general direction, joining him in laughter.

Maleficent had not realised that Shrike had siblings – not that she had given it a great deal of thought, truth be told – though the more she thought about it, the more she realised that it made little sense for the Dark Fey that she knew to be only children. Her people had spent generations trying to preserve their species, after all, and larger families would only facilitate that. No doubt Borra had a few brothers and sisters here and there as well.

Heavens. _In-laws_. She had definitely not considered _that_.

Would she have had siblings, had her parents chosen to remain on the island with their own kind instead of taking their chances in trying to make peace with the humans? She could hardly imagine what it would be like to have a brother. Or – gods – a _sister_.

Perhaps Diaval could enlighten her – adding together each of the fledglings from his parents’ clutches, he was brother to near a dozen.

Speaking of Diaval… where had he gotten himself to? Now that she stopped to think about it, she had not actually seen him for close to an hour. He had wandered down the hornbeam knoll toward the east, quickly disappearing from sight into the untouched wilderness beyond. She had heard nothing to indicate that he was in any sort of trouble, but nevertheless, he had been gone long enough now to be… not _concerning_ , exactly, but certainly worthy of greater attention.

Udo laid his cloak on the grass and set Wilfred upon in on his belly. The boy squirmed and kicked his legs, then raised his head to look at the world from this new and interesting angle with bright, inquisitive eyes, gnawing all the while on his fist until it was coated in a thick layer of drool.

A mellow breeze wafted gently about them, bringing subtle summer scents and a sweet freshness to the air, rustling vibrant leaves above and caressing the delicate flowers on the hill. Birdsong echoed throughout the meadow; the soft trills of swallows and robins, the gentle melodies of blackbirds, and occasionally, the sly caw of a raven from someplace far away.

If not for the circumstances of their arrival in this place, it would have been a rather pleasant afternoon, all things considered. It reminded Maleficent of long summer days spent in the Moors, surrounded by wonders of incomparable natural beauty and the mellifluous songs of the fair folk.

The dull, rhythmic crunching of footsteps from within the woods the other side of the tree roused her from her languid musing, growing louder with each passing moment. Someone was approaching.

Maleficent looked up quickly, her heart quickening in anticipation of a possible attack. She tensed, rising to her knees and calling her magic forth so that she might have it ready to defend Wilfred, should the need arise.

Had the Warlock survived having a tower fall upon him after all? How could he have found them so quickly?

As the owner of the footsteps reached the tree line and came into her line of sight, Maleficent exhaled sharply, feeling rather foolish. Far from a potential attacker, it was just Diaval, finally returned from wherever it was that he had gotten to. She wanted to scold him for alarming her, but it seemed irrational to expect him to call out a greeting from a distance in broad daylight to avoid being blown to smithereens by her magic. He had never had to do such a thing before.

As Diaval crossed the meadow to the base of the hillock, Maleficent raised an eyebrow, noting that her raven was rather dishevelled – from the look of his hair, she surmised that he had tried to wash it in the nearby creek – glowing with exertion, and inexplicably shirtless. 

His tunic, she quickly realised, was slung over his shoulder in a sort of ad hoc sack arrangement. He was hauling it back to their camp with an expression of determined concentration.

Diaval made his way to the top of the knoll and deposited his laden tunic on to the grass in front of him. As he released it, grinning and breathing heavily, the fabric fell open to reveal a bounty of gathered food; gooseberries and hawthorn apples, hazelnuts and almonds, even the odd stalk of wild rhubarb and pieces of fresh pine bark.

“Found us some dinner!” he quipped. “Next time we’re havin’ a little camp-out, Mistress, I’ll have to get you to magic me a proper bag for it all. Lucky it’s warmer here than in Nyrsta Vígi, I might have frozen entirely for the want of a shirt.”

Maleficent supposed that a biting comment about Diaval’s hardiness and the pampered nature of the common raven was probably in order, but for the life of her she could not think of one, distracted as she was by the vision of lean muscle seating itself down before her. He was not bulky or brawny, not in the way that Borra was, but if anything, she found Diaval’s toned, sinewy form more appealing than raw muscular physicality. A fine sheen of sweat had settled across his chest from his toil, highlighting the unique scarring over his breastbone and drawing attention to the shape of his body beneath.

She inhaled sharply at the sudden mental flash of raking her talons across that alluring expanse of bare skin, leaving raised red marks along his sternum and down to the smattering of dark hair below his navel as he watched her, enraptured, his eyes like glittering gemstones in the night.

Hm, it was certainly a lot warmer in Lur Maiteak than it had been in Nyrsta Vígi.

A subtle movement alerted her to Shrike’s intent stare. The Jungle Fey flicked her eyes from Maleficent to Diaval, lingering for a moment before returning her gaze and mouthing, “ _Delicious_ ” with a knowing tilt of her head.

Maleficent looked away.

Not to be deterred, Shrike shuffled over to sit beside her and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Don’t you sit there and tell me that you’re not thinking about running your tongue all over that magnificent creature, Maleficent. If you’re not thinking it, then you truly must be dead inside.”

“Shrike!” Was she really that transparent?

The Jungle Fey was not finished with her. “I can’t believe you. You spend your days with an absolutely gorgeous creature such as he, and you’ve never _once_ pulled him into your nest?”

“Not like that.” Maleficent muttered, wishing that Shrike would drop her impertinent line of questioning before Diaval noticed what she was talking about. The last thing she needed was a raven with an even more inflated ego than usual. He remained eternally convinced of his own beauty anyway, and so reinforcing that belief would only serve to swell his head.

“Ah, but you _have_ pulled him into your nest, then?” Shrike persisted, elbowing Maleficent convivially and smirking at her discomfort.

“Not for _that_.” Maleficent hissed. She hoped desperately that the nervous heat which inflamed her cheeks and the pointed tips of her ears was less visible than it felt.

Shrike eyed her meaningfully, raising her eyebrows for emphasis. “Perhaps you should consider it, before someone else comes along and snaps up that fine, fine specimen.”

Why did the ground _persist_ in remaining solid when all she wanted was to be swallowed up by it?

Maleficent was certain that Borra, on her other side, was overhearing every word, though he showed no sign of it. What if he assumed that her relationship with Diaval was akin to that of Shrike and Percival – passionate, intense, and involving frequent and _vigorous_ coupling – and was dissuaded from accepting her offer to mate? He was proud, certainly, and he would never allow himself to be cuckolded. She had to put a stop to this – whatever _this_ was.

Besides which, it was embarrassing her, and that reason alone was enough to redirect the conversation toward Shrike and well away from herself.

“Shrike, do you ever think about anything else?”

“Of course I do. I just happen to appreciate the finer things in life, that’s all. And I would hazard a guess that I am far more relaxed than you are.”

“Percival is an adequate mate then, I take it?” Maleficent knew, of course, that the man was more than adequate, having overheard their rather vocal dalliances on more than one occasion, but asking for confirmation struck her as a brilliant way to shift the focus of their discussion from her _obviously_ nonexistent desire for her raven to the clear and evident relationship between the Jungle Fey and her human paramour.

Shrike grinned. “He has some unusual talents which come in rather handy at times. Have you considered what sort of talents a raven-human-dragon-bear-rabbit-and-so-on might be hiding?” She pulled her knee up and leaned her elbow on it. “You should consider him, at least. The gods only know, he adores you enough.”

Maleficent made to reply – something about Shrike’s interminable focus on matters of which she had no business sticking her nose in, or perhaps enquiring as to whether she and Diaval were joining forces in an especially unfunny practical joke – but something stopped the words before they had passed her lips.

She looked up to see a pair of deep ebony eyes boring holes into her own. The tiniest knowing smile flitted across his lips as he twitched one dark eyebrow.

He _knew_.

Maleficent hoped that she was not flushing as much as she feared. The vain creature would never let her hear the end of it. She should have known better than to engage in such a conversation within a hundred feet of him – of course he had overheard it.

Beside her, Shrike was chuckling to herself, the evil minx. Perhaps they _had_ planned this. She might have to magic Diaval into a flea, just to remind him to behave himself.

She snatched up a hazelnut, menacingly cracking it open with her fingers without breaking eye contact with Diaval. The cheeky bird merely smirked at her, popping a gooseberry between his lips and licking up a stray drop of juice from his finger.

“Eat up, Mistress. I want my shirt back.” he teased, his eyebrow flicking upward ever so slightly.

She would most definitely have to turn him into a flea.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set, but the Dark Fey girl flew onward to the north, skimming the tops of trees like a great snowy owl, her keen eyes ever watchful for a sign that the Phoenix had passed by.

The changing landscape below her told her that she had crossed the border into the woodland of Perceforest. The humans in Ulstead had left nary a tree in their country, instead preferring to fill their lands with townships and sprawling farms, and had begun to do the same to the Midlands to the north-east since their annexation some two years prior.

They were all a bit revolting, humans, but she supposed that they would come around to the natural order of things with a bit of coaxing eventually.

Even as her eyes scanned the horizon in the failing light, Eira mentally calculated the likely path of the search party. Having begun in Ulstead, they would have flown directly to the Nyrsta Vígan capital, but from there, the spirits only knew. She could easily fly straight past them if she lost her focus for even a moment.

There was, however, a deep and ancient magic, and one which any Dark Fey was capable of drawing upon should the need arise. It was a powerless magic – one which could be used for neither defence nor creation – but one with great usefulness in times such as these.

Slowly, Eira exhaled and called upon the ancients to assist her. Breathing in once more, slowly, evenly, feeling the drag of her wings and the rush of the evening air past her face, the girl focused on the one who she knew best among the search party, trying to feel that familiar presence wherever it existed in the world. She hoped that the Phoenix was still with the others.

A tug at her unconsciousness confirmed the presence of the ancient magic, and she turned slightly, smiling, allowing the pull of familiarity to guide her to her goal.

* * *

“I’m sorry.” Vætki whispered, refusing to lift her gaze from her folded hands, which sat restlessly in her lap.

In the long dusky shadows of the tree, Udo rocked Wilfred into slumber, humming a soft melody which reminded Maleficent of the eve of spring. Shrike lay on her stomach with her feet in the air, stretching out each of her vibrant wings in turn and poking at the lily-of-the-valleys, making them dance about each other with her magic. Borra had taken up a post at the top of the hornbeam tree once again, and was ostensibly looking out for oncoming danger. Vætki’s apology was clearly meant for Diaval and Maleficent alone.

Diaval, now fully dressed again after their evening meal, leaned over from behind Maleficent’s half-preened wing, trying to make eye contact with the girl and reassure her. “You had little choice.”

“I should never have agreed to it, though.”

“He would have killed you – you said so yourself. More than once, if I recall.” he replied gently, straightening a stray feather without breaking eye contact with Vætki.

“Yes, he would have. But it might have been a better choice anyway.” the girl whispered.

“Vætki, how long were you his servants?” Maleficent interjected.

“About ten years, or thereabouts.”

“You must remember your life before.”

Vætki hesitated. “I do. This was our homeland, Lur Maiteak. We lived in the borderlands, in a little village so small that nobody had ever bothered to name it. I remember our parents. Our family. We had two brothers and a baby sister, but they didn’t survive. I was ten years old when the Master killed them and our parents, and took us away. Ekkert was only five. He doesn’t remember any of it.”

“Five is very young. That is hardly surprising.” Maleficent replied in an uncharacteristically soothing tone. Her nostrils flared in astonishment at hearing such a gentle inflection coming from her own mouth, though nobody else seemed to notice enough to comment upon it.

Vaetki shook her head. “That’s not why he has no memory of it.” She looked across at her little brother, who had scaled a nearby tree and was hanging upside-down from one of the larger branches like a strange brown bat. “The Master did that.”

Maleficent leaned toward the girl, pausing for a moment before reaching out to take one of her hands. She could not fathom where this instinctive compassion was coming from, but almost immediately decided to embrace it. It seemed to be having the desired effect on Vætki, in any case. “What happened?”

The young woman chewed on her lower lip, hesitating for a long time.

“It’s hard to believe, looking at him now, you know. Ekkert was _brilliant_. He taught himself to read before he was two years old. He invented all sorts of steam-powered farming contraptions and built tiny working models to show our father when he was four.” She smiled at the memory. “He had a smart mouth on him, though. I suppose that he was so clever that everyone else seemed like a fool to him, and he often treated them as such.”

Vætki’s expression had softened at the memory of her amazing little brother, but her face became a mask again as she continued.

“But then the Master came. I think he had planned to kill everyone but me – I was the eldest – but there was something about Iaaki that stayed his hand. He took us both.”

“Iaaki?”

“Ekkert. His name was Iaaki. The Master gave us both names which he claimed ‘better suited’ our new stations.” she recalled. “Both ‘Ekkert’ and ‘Vætki’ mean ‘nothing’.”

Her expression was impassive. It was as though she had accepted the Warlock’s assessment of her worth long ago and had not thought to question it since.

“That’s disgusting.” Diaval growled, tugging roughly on a loose covert and causing Maleficent to bite back a yelp, “And completely untrue, more’s the point.”

Vætki gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s all we have known for ten years. Ekkert remembers no different.”

“What happened, Vætki? Or would you rather I use another name?” Maleficent asked. Knowing the true, unpleasant meaning of the girl’s name made using it suddenly feel rather awkward, as though by calling her ‘nothing’, she was effectively reinforcing the young woman’s belief.

Vætki shook her head with a sad little smile.

“It was late in the summer, and the harvest was just beginning. We lived on a farm near the Pozgarria River, just east of the border into Nystra Vígi, and we were pretty much alone out there. Our nearest neighbours were half a day away on horseback. That day, Aita – our father – was out in the fields with Markel and Ganiz, our brothers. Iaaki was too young to be of any help, and he was tinkering with his contraptions anyway. They were far more interesting to him than wheat, even if his destiny was to be a farmer like his father before him. Ama was in the cottage with Xuxa, the baby, and I was hanging our washed clothing outside in the sunshine. An ordinary summer day. There had been dozens like it just that year alone.”

She smiled, caught in the memory of halcyon days; nostalgia all the more poignant considering all that had happened since.

“A man came. He was tall and quite handsome, but there was something frightening about his eyes. They were cold. Colder than ice. The way that he looked at me was terrifying. Like I was _prey_.”

Maleficent and Diaval exchanged a look; the latter abandoning his preening and shuffling around beside Vætki to gently squeeze her shoulder. “You don’t have to keep goin’ if you don’t want.” he said softly. The girl shook her head and forced a weak smile at him before continuing.

“He went into the cottage, and all I could hear was Ama screaming. The noise was deafening, and there were bright lights – his magic. Aita, Markel and Ganiz came running as soon as they heard, but all was silent by the time they made it back.

The Master came out of the cottage again, dragging Iaaki by the elbow. He was hitting and spitting at the Master, scratching at him and cursing, but when he saw Aita he starting screaming that the man had killed our Ama and the baby.

I couldn’t believe it. Aita rushed him, and the Master sent him flying into the stone wall around the cottage. I – I heard a snap, like a branch being stepped on, and he was dead.” Vætki whispered tremulously. She curled her knees up against her stomach, tightening herself into a ball and hugging her legs. Her eyes gazed unblinking into the distance, the images in her mind’s eye too vivid for reality to penetrate.

“Ganiz started to run, but the Master sent a bolt of magic at him and threw him high in the sky. He dropped him straight onto Markel, and it killed both of them.

Iaaki and I were the only ones left. I couldn’t move. The Master grabbed me and dragged me along with him, but Iaaki was still fighting. Th-The Master…” she trailed off.

“The Master hit him with magic. Bolt after bolt, until he was unconscious. I thought he was dead, but he woke again after a few hours, as we crossed into Nyrsta Vígi. He started to struggle, and the Master threw more magic at him until he was unconscious again.

The Master kept it up, day after day, week after week. He wanted to break Iaaki, turn him into Ekkert. I did as he asked – I was weak. I accepted the name the Master gave me and did whatever I was told to do. Iaaki fought. I remember him screaming that his name was Iaaki, not Ekkert, and that the Master would have to kill him…” Vætki trailed off. Tears filled her eyes, though she stubbornly blinked them away, looking over at her brother with the sort of grief one would expect had the Warlock actually succeeded.

“He nearly did. Every time he tortured my brother into unconsciousness, more of him died. His brilliance, his feistiness, his fight to stay himself… all of it gradually disappeared as the Master damaged his brain over and over again. In the end, all that was left was what you see now. Ekkert. Simple, compliant, vacuous, sweet-natured Ekkert. All that he is now, and all that he will ever be again.”

She fell quiet for some time, and neither Maleficent nor Diaval could find the words to fill the silence. Whenever it seemed as though the Warlock could do no further evil in the world, more came to light, even now, after his death. Though the siblings would undoubtedly have better lives in Ulstead than they ever could have hoped for in Nyrsta Vígi, there would be no saving Ekkert. Though he still lived and breathed, the boy he had been was gone, and his sister would forever grieve.

“Seina.” Vætki whispered, so softly that Maleficent was not entirely certain that she had spoken at all.

“What was that?” Diaval asked, leaning in closer once more.

“Seina.” the girl repeated. “My name, before the Master came. The girl who died alongside her family that day. It was Seina.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this personal headcanon that Borra and Shrike have an almost siblinglike antagonistic relationship – one of those ones that is completely platonic but also completely open and honest. They adore each other and tease each other mercilessly, but it would never turn romantic because ew, that’s like kissing your sibling.
> 
> Also, I am well aware that Wilfred’s nappy/diaper would need to be changed a number of times over the course of this chapter, but in the interests of not bogging the narrative down in obvious details (I can confirm that each and every one of them did pee at some point over the course of the day, some of them more than once, and several of them pooped as well), so just assume that everyone has wonderful hygiene but choose to keep these things to themselves.


	19. Chapter 19

Lying on his back on the knoll beneath the hornbeam tree, Diaval watched the moon slowly sinking toward the western horizon. It was a clear night, and warm enough for him to be quite comfortable during his early-morning watch.

Now halfway to fullness, the moon cast an opalescent glow upon the landscape, sinking into deep shadows which lengthened as it moved steadily lower in the sky. Enough light fell into the woven-root cavern in which the other weary travellers slept to illuminate their sleeping faces, which, if nothing else, reassured Diaval that he was alone with his thoughts.

Maleficent curled up, a tight ball of umber feathers, nearest to the entry – ostensibly to ensure that she would be immediately present in the event of any unwanted attention from strangers. Her unbound hair framed her face like a dark halo, somewhat incongruous to the large, almost demonlike horns which rose from beneath it. Angel and devil and most of what could be found between, coexisting within a single individual, Diaval thought.

His Mistress was peaceful like this, relaxed in the embrace of slumber, the strain of her innumerable obligations absent from her features as her wings fluttered periodically about her cheeks in response to her dreams.

Nestled in her arms beneath a blanket of soft feathers lay Wilfred, his little hand curling into a fist around his grandmother’s slender index finger. His mouth made sweet little sucking motions in his sleep, his eyelids fluttering as he dreamed of simple baby things. Diaval wondered if perhaps the little fellow was dreaming of his mother; the smile which repeatedly graced the child’s face only lent evidence to the raven man’s theory.

It seemed absurd, the little blonde human baby comfortably asleep in the arms of a dark and brooding Forest Fey – so different from each other, and hardly supposed to coexist together, but there they were, the powerful faerie and the innocent babe whom she called grandson. Maleficent hardly looked old enough to be Wilfred’s mother, never mind his grandmother.

Diaval wondered, not for the first time that night, just what if might look like if the child in her arms had tiny horns and much darker hair, and a pair of little downy wings nestled against their back. No doubt he would someday have _some_ idea, given that his Mistress’ entire impetus for taking Borra as a mate was to beget the next Phoenix, but there was no telling what such a child might look like. 

Not as dark as the child in his imaginings, no – the hybrid of a pale-complected, brunette Forest Fey and an almost uniformly tan-coloured Desert Fey could never look like that. He couldn’t quite figure out just how it would work, actually. Would the child have horns like Maleficent’s, curling back from either side of her crown, or would they be more like Borra’s – straight up, and closer to their forehead? Would the little one inherit the strange skin cracking which was characteristic of the Desert Fey, or would it be more like its mother, with smooth, almost ethereal skin which almost appeared to glow in low light? A conglomerate-child with bits and pieces of Forest and Desert alike, never quite one or the other. He hoped that the poor creature would not become a pariah because of it.

A child with Maleficent’s fine features – and Diaval could imagine no scenario in which a child of his Mistress would look anything but the image of her – should have those beautiful cheekbones and porcelain skin enhanced, not detracted from. What would really make the little one stand out as someone special – as the child of the Phoenix, and a future Phoenix herself – would be to have those stunning features complemented by a head of raven-black hair and wings as dark as night. 

Now _that_ would be a truly beautiful child, if he did say so himself. Wishful thinking, certainly, but Diaval could hardly help his stream of consciousness in the still of the early morn; imaginings of a lifetime which he would never get to live, and the warm weight of a child, as delicate-featured as her mother and undoubtedly every bit as formidable someday, cradled in his loving arms. “Éan Beag,” he would whisper to her, “My little bird,”, and she would watch him with eyes of vibrant green, a wise, knowing look which would have him wondering if she had graced the world before.

He shook himself, blinking away his tears of grief for the child who only existed in his mind.

Some watch, Diaval though, and some watcher he was. If he had to be entirely honest with himself, he had spent far more time gazing at Maleficent and daydreaming about the child that they would never have than he had scanning their surroundings for unexpected visitors. Fortunately, the watch was more for their own piece of mind – and the ability to sleep more easily – than it was from any real concern for an attack in the dead of night. Their enemy was dead. There was nothing left to fear from him.

Maleficent had asked him, not long after sunset, once Wilfred had settled and most of the others had chosen to get some rest, to walk with her. Leaving Borra on the first watch (and boring holes in the back of Diaval’s head with the jealous fury in his gaze), they had slowly meandered down the hornbeam’s hillock and toward the mossy banks of a nearby creek.

She had drawn him down beside the gurgling water, running a graceful hand through the ripples and watching as it changed the course of the flow downstream. Her entire countenance spoke of tension, though she was clearly choosing to ignore it. For the briefest of moments, Diaval’s heart leapt at the thought that she may have reconsidered her intention to mate Borra; that she had chosen to bring him here, to this quiet, rather romantic location beneath the light of the rising moon in order to take a different path entirely.

A path in which _he_ was the one to walk beside her.

Alas, he should have known better than to hope, for once she had set herself upon a path, she seldom allowed herself to stray from it. Her true motivations could not have been further from his dreams had she read them on his face and then picked them apart like ravens on a fresh corpse.

“I wanted to ask you,” she began, “If you would teach me all that you have learned from watching the humans in the way of courting. Flirtation, as it were. Enticing a mate. I know little of these things, but you have watched and learned for many years. I doubt that there is much that you have not witnessed.”

True enough, he had thought with a pang. He had seen the beginnings and the endings of human relationships, and all that fell in between. Love and hate, agony and jealousy, births and deaths and the joining of humans as they came together in love and lust and desperation. There was little that Diaval had not been privy to among the humans.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to look at her. Her eyes sparkled like precious jewels in the moonlight, her ethereal skin almost glowing. It was all that Diaval could do to keep from laying his very heart at her feet, knowing that she would trample it beneath them in absolute fear, even having been acutely aware of her earlier attraction to him as he sat bare-chested beside the food that he had gathered. Physical attraction, however, did not equal love.

“I, uh…” he swallowed again, blinking quickly, “I suppose I’ve picked up a thing or two over the years.”

“Show me.”

“I don’t know if I can, Mistress. The way one human responds to another is very personal, you see, and I figure it’s the same for Fey. It’s about doin’ what feels right, and what comes naturally at the time. I could tell you what I’ve seen the court ladies do when their menfolk show an interest in them, but it’s goin’ to come out lookin’ and feelin’ fake if you’re not actually believin’ it.”

“Then how do I know what is real? I can hardly encourage Borra’s attention if I have no concept of what will attract him.”

Diaval shook his head, hiding the sadness of his smile by ducking slightly so that he appeared more amused than heartbroken. “You do what feels right.”

“I hardly know what feels right.” she replied in bewilderment. 

A thought seemed to cross her mind and she eyed him wolfishly, sizing him up as though contemplating having him for a midnight snack. The raven man could not help but be reminded of the way in which she had scrutinised him at their first meeting, her proud perfection a stark contrast to his naked, filthy dishevelment, and he gazed at her in wary fascination, waiting to see where her thoughts would bring her.

Pursing her lips and examining him, she seemed to come to some sort of decision, and yet for all that Diaval knew her, he could never have guessed at her next words.

“Will you pretend to be Borra so that I might practice?”

Diaval stared at her for a long moment, blinking very slowly at her absolute oblivion. “You know I’m not too thrilled about that.”

“You made your feelings on my mating him implicitly clear, Diaval.”

“If you’re intent on doin’ it, I won’t argue with you. I’m not happy about it, and I never will be, because I think he’s all wrong for you, but I’m not your keeper. I just want you to be happy.”

She inclined her head, a tiny smile on her lips which did not quite reach her eyes.

Borra would not make her happy, though. That was the deeply unsettling fact of the matter. As much as it would pain Diaval to see Maleficent in the arms of another, he would have grudgingly given her his blessing had he thought that a life well lived would come of the union.

He could not, however, deny her anything that she asked of him.

_Whatever you need._

Diaval squared his shoulders and knelt taller on the creek bank. He flexed his chest, adopting a simulacrum of Borra’s smirk, and imitated the Desert Fey’s characteristic grunt.

Maleficent let out a single bark of laughter, her smile becoming a genuine grin of mirth.

“Hey there, Maleficent, I’d really like to grunt beside you for the rest of my days. How ‘bout it, gorgeous?” Diaval intoned gruffly, waggling his eyebrows at her and feigning an exaggerated swagger.

“Diaval!” she snorted, cuffing his shoulder with her fingertips.

“ _Diaval?_ ” he replied, feigning confusion, “There’s no _Diaval_ here, only Borra – brawny, manly Fey who will give you many grunty, grunty children.” He grunted a few times for emphasis, ducking and laughing as she made to shove him into the creek.

“Aha, a declaration of love in the exotically rare language of Maleficentese!”

“Idiot bird. I should have known that you wouldn’t take this seriously.” She arched an eyebrow and glared at him. He wondered why she bothered, considering that she was unequivocally aware that he would forever find her about as intimidating as a newborn duckling.

He cocked his head at her, smiling crookedly and abandoning his atrocious Borra impression. “I don’t know what it is you want me to do. I can’t exactly teach you to flirt.”

“Why not?”

 _Because if you try it out on me, I might dissolve into a little feathery puddle right here on the creek bank?_ “Because it wouldn’t be the same as flirtin’ with Borra.”

“Flirting is flirting.”

“Rubbish. Not if it’s done properly. See, if I had my eye on a lovely she-raven, I’d tell her so by bringing her lovely things to eat to prove that I can be a good provider, and little trinkets and gifts to make her life beautiful. I’d make her a comfortable nest to show her that I would be a good father to her hatchlin’s, and show her what an absolutely amazin’ flyer I am. Because that runs in the family, you know.”

Maleficent snorted derisively. “I would hardly call that flirting. You’ve done all of those things for me often enough.”

Diaval paused for several seconds, his face a mask, even as he grappled with a sudden realisation. “Yes, well, that’s the way a she-raven would understand, and clearly you’re _not_ a raven.” he replied slowly, “So if I were tryin’ to tell you that I wanted you as a mate, I’d have to do things differently. Say it in a way that you’d understand, see?” Gods, it was so obvious, and he was an idiot of the highest order. She had never picked up on any of the ways in which ravens showed an interest in mating with another because _she wasn’t a flipping raven_ , even if she did have the marvellous wings of a bird and the sylphlike physique which came with natural flight. Of _course_ she had no idea that he was telling her that he loved her, that he wanted to build a life and a family with her – he may as well have been reciting love sonnets to the fish in the river.

Now that he realised it, it seemed like the most obvious thing in the world.

“So you’re saying that I need to engage him in a way that is specific to him?” She narrowed her eyes, waiting for Diaval’s confirmation.

“I suppose that’s what I’m sayin’. Though I don’t imagine you’d struggle to attract him. You’re beautiful. Brilliant. Strong and brave and kinder than you know. He’d be mad – _mad_ – not to want you.” Diaval whispered fervently.

She contemplated that for a moment, lost in thought, her gaze unfocused as she turned her attention inward. Diaval wondered if she had read more into his words than he had intended her to; if his vehemence and passion had unconsciously told her of the heartache he felt at the thought of her in the arms of another, of the need that he felt for the light of her presence and the longing that he felt in his human body to hold her close, love her in every way imaginable, and never let her go.

He wanted to touch her. To reach out and run his fingers along the shimmering skin of her cheekbones, trail them downward to the hollow of her throat and stroke along her collarbones until she trembled. Every fibre of his being called to him to reach for her and _tell_ her, confess his love and need and hopeless desire for her, and then kiss her breathless by the bank of this creek beneath the silvery moonlight. 

He wanted to make her forget that there ever existed a Fey named Borra.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he waited until her thoughts returned to the present, and she smiled somewhat pensively, a wistful longing in her eyes of inscrutable origin. If he didn’t know any better, he would have read her expression as one of deep indecision, trepidation and quiet hope.

He wished that he knew who it was that she thought of that troubled her so.

Having apparently reaching some sort of personal decision, or perhaps merely having decided that her request to him was a pointless exercise after all, Maleficent rose without a word and held out a slender hand, beckoned Diaval to return to the knoll with her. He accepted her hand, keeping his fingers entwined with her own until such time as she made the choice to release them.

_Whatever you need, my love._

Now, he reclined on the hillock with his head resting on his hand, watching the rise and fall of her breathing from beneath her wings as he despondently contemplated the future.

She was determined to make a mate of Borra, though he wondered if her decision had been influenced of late by her own stubbornness – the Desert Fey, whilst attentive when it suited him, barely seemed to know what to say to her, and Diaval could scarcely believe that such a situation was comfortable for Maleficent. She was not a fool, and surely she had realised by now that her intentions were not as straightforward as she had hoped them to be, but to change her mind now would be to admit that she was wrong – not something that she had ever managed without a considerable helping of angst and misery beforehand.

Perhaps she had already made Borra aware of her plans for him. It would explain her utter pigheadedness, even in the face of her closest and oldest friend telling her that it was a terrible idea.

Diaval sighed.

“Your thoughts trouble you.” came a gentle voice from within the shelter. Slowly and carefully, mindful of their slumbering companions, Udo made his way outside and sat patiently beside Diaval. He tucked the folds of his cloak around himself and waited.

He saw everything, Udo. He said surprisingly little, but he saw absolutely everything, and more importantly, he _understood_ everything too. There was no deceiving him.

“They do.” Diaval replied, giving the Tundra Fey a sad sort of smile. “But not so much that you need to be troubled by them too. You should be sleepin’, Udo, after all the flyin’ you did yesterday.”

“A problem shared is a problem halved, as they say.” the Tundra Fey responded sagely.

“Do they? Who are ‘they’, and what makes them think they know so much?”

Udo shrugged, smiling at Diaval. “I suppose it matters little who ‘they’ are, if they are correct.”

Diaval sat up properly and leaned forward on his knees, frowning contemplatively. “Maybe.”

He hesitated, chewing on his lower lip as he considered the curious orange glow which underlit the brewing clouds low on the northern horizon. Perhaps he could talk to Udo. He trusted that the prudent Tundra Fey would speak none of his words to Maleficent, and his wisdom and insight might prove a panacea to the miasma of miserable desperation clouding his mind. Licking his lips, Diaval squinted at Udo, cocking his head to the side as he would in his raven form when studying something fascinating.

“What would you do – hypothetically speakin’, of course – if someone you cared a lot about was hell-bent on doin’ something that you _knew_ would make them deeply unhappy, but they weren’t listenin’ to anythin’ you had to say on the matter?”

“What is it that makes you think that your hypothetical friend is not listening?” Udo replied, his pale eyes boring into Diaval’s soul.

“Because that hypothetical friend is even more determined to go ahead and do… the thing. The thing that would be a bad idea. Hypothetically.” Diaval ran his hands through the lily-of-the-valleys surrounding them, pulling at the petals until they fell apart, crushed, beneath his fingertips. The spicy, almost lemony scent invaded his nostrils, fresh and piquant as meadow grasses on a bright spring day. He wiped the crushed flowers on his pants, imagining the tongue-lashing that he would receive from Maleficent if she caught him playing with poisonous flowers.

Udo inclined his head, then returned his knowing gaze to the raven man. “Perhaps, Diaval, your hypothetical friend has set herself upon this course because she fears the alternative.”

“There’s nothin’ to fear from that. The alternative would never hurt her. The alternative loves her with everythin’ he is.” Diaval protested, though his tone betrayed the depth of his pain at the suggestion.

“Those who have been hurt badly do not always accept such things. Her heart tells her one thing, but her fear tells her another. She listens to fear, because fear will protect her from reliving the pain once inflicted upon her heart.”

“Even if my hypothetical friend doesn’t want the alternative, even if she doesn’t feel that way for him… how do I help her to see that she’s makin’ a mistake? I just want her to be happy.”

Udo leaned toward the raven man, lowering his voice and gazing earnestly into his eyes. “It might seem obvious, Diaval, but have you actually _specifically and directly_ told her how you feel?”

“This is hypothetical, Udo.”

The Tundra Fey sighed imploringly. “It is all well and good to be oblique, but oblique is far easier to ignore. Tell her that you love her.”

Diaval threw Udo a sharp look as his heart skipped a beat at the shock of his innermost feelings being so cavalierly laid bare. He could hardly fault such a perceptive creature as Udo for having the measure of him, but it was still alarming to have him verbalise all that Diaval had fought to hide. 

“I’ll scare her away.” he whispered.

“Perhaps. But not forever. It is hard to leave the ones you love forever, even when they frighten you.”

Diaval squirmed, digging his heels into the soft earth and uprooting the grass. Udo was making quite an assumption, and in doing so, was serving only to reinforce Diaval’s deepest unspoken fear. He worshipped Maleficent, and nothing in the world would make him happier than spending his life with her, whiling away their days together in the company of Aurora and her family – and maybe, if the fates were kind, raising a little family of their own. It was nothing more than the fantasy of a besotted bird, however, and in the darkest parts of his mind, his nightmares screamed to him in the unholy shrieks of demons that such a magnificent being could never return the love that he had to give.

“I don’t know that she shares my feelin’s, Udo.” he murmured, refusing to meet the other man’s eyes. “And I’m more scared of losin’ her because I’ve frightened her away than I am of losin’ her to another. I know which is worse, deep down.”

“What does your heart tell you, my friend?”

What _did_ his heart tell him?

She feared, and that fear made her blind to that which was right in front of her. She knew that he cared for her – that much was undeniable. If Diaval was to be honest with himself, he knew that she too cared for him, and possibly more than merely a deep and loving friendship. He had seen evidence enough over the years to suspect that she loved him as profoundly as he loved her, despite being as irrationally opposed to the emotion as she was.

If only Maleficent could let go of her fear of allowing herself to love another, and her terror of being hurt again by one who claimed to love her. If only she could be accepting of the fact that Diaval, lacking in personal ambition and general nastiness, would never do to her what Stefan had done – then the possibility of a life and a future together could exist. The precious little raven-Fey, his sweet little bird, the child who only existed in his dreams, could exist in reality.

He had resolved to support her in her choices, regardless of the hurt that he knew would come his way in doing so, but that resolution was becoming harder to accept within his own mind. The path she had chosen would bring her pain, and it hurt him to know it and be unable to change it.

She would find companionship with Borra, certainly, and perhaps some degree of physical satisfaction (though Diaval wondered if the Desert Fey’s grandiose swagger indicated a level of expertise in the nest, or was actually a cover for the fact that he was mediocre at best.) She might even believe herself happy, if she were to deny herself any sort of deep feeling or strong emotion.

The raven man was not completely oblivious to the ways of the Dark Fey, of course, and he understood well enough that the pleasure which came from mating could be quite independent of personal feelings and emotions. It was the same in the human realm, where marriages were often arranged for the sake of familial political alliances or to cement treaties between kingdoms. Kings from ages past may not have loved their queens as he loved his Mistress, but there was no denying their enjoyment of the mating act in spite of it. Whether or not those queens shared that enjoyment was a matter of speculation, but Diaval refused to believe that every last one of them simply endured without satisfaction throughout history. 

It was only among the peasant folk that love even factored, generally speaking – Aurora and Phillip being the only notable exception that Diaval could think of amid the loveless nobility. 

Maleficent would believe herself content until she held her newly born child in her arms, still warm and wet from the womb. Then, and only then, as she gazed with weary awe into the bright eyes of the one she had brought into being – the one for whom she had taken a mate in the first place, the one who would steal her heart anew and fill her with a light which she had never before truly known – would she realise just what it was that she lacked with the one who had fathered the child.

And what if there never _was_ a child? It happened commonly enough, after all. Considering that she was considering taking a mate in the first instance because of an unspoken obligation to birth the next Phoenix, how would she react if she were to choose Borra as a result of some internalised belief of his suitability to father the next generation of her line, and the child never came?

A true love match would survive such a thing. A mating of convenience or appropriateness likely would not.

If Maleficent were to behave as expected, she would very deliberately not allow such a thing to bother her – not overtly, anyway. Knowing her, though, better perhaps than she knew herself, Diaval knew that it would not be so simple. He could see the changes in his mind’s eye; the Moors slowly becoming enshrouded in darkness, a place of grief and pain as it had once been many years and bitter memories before. She would grow to resent Borra, for not loving her, for daring to love her, for not being one that she could allow herself to love, for not giving her the one thing that he was supposed to give her, and she would come to hate herself for making a choice which had ruined all of their lives.

He could not even accuse himself of catastrophising – he had seen it before, in the days of hostile gloom following Stefan’s betrayal. He had watched as she had sought her retribution in cursing baby Aurora, and then caught her time and time again as she fell, slowly destroyed by the realisation that all that her revenge had achieved was pain for those who were entirely innocent.

“My heart tells me that there’s a lot more at stake here than my own happiness.” Diaval finally replied. He could hardly articulate the turmoil of feeling and emotion attached to his thoughts; to do so would take hours, and he could still never hope to capture the depth of it. Maleficent was the key to peace and happiness, not just for himself, but for the denizens of the Moors and the population of the Dark Fey. He understood it, felt it within the depths of his being, even if she did not.

Udo’s pale eyes penetrated Diaval’s dark ones like startling beams of light in the dim of the early morning, finding the truth of the raven man’s feelings and perceptions, and understanding them in a way which was almost frightening. “Would pursuing your own happiness have favourable consequences in those stakes?” he asked knowingly, raising an eyebrow to indicate that he already had some idea of the answer.

Diaval cocked his head and frowned. “I’m not certain.”

Udo turned his attention away from the raven man without warning and looked skyward, frowning slightly as he listened. It was only moments before Diaval too heard the sound which had caught the Tundra Fey’s attention.

Wings.

The cadenced pulse of Dark Fey wings, thrumming through the predawn hush and coming closer with each passing second. The sound was unmistakable to one who had heard it countless times before. 

Diaval stood and took a handful of steps down the knoll, away from obstruction of the tree canopy; his eyes reflecting the individual points of starlight as they slowly roved from east to west, painstakingly searching the tranquil sky.

As he searched, Diaval became aware of a small, pale smudge to the south-west, barely visible in the night sky but for the moonlight reflecting from a pair of snowy white wings. A Dark Fey, without a doubt – no other creature in the known world had wings as impressive as they.

Why would a Dark Fey be out flying in this direction before daybreak?

The smudge appeared to change direction as he watched, as though drawn by an unseen force to their location. Diaval’s heart quickened, though his brain took several more seconds to catch up; a Dark Fey who was headed in their direction at such an unusual hour of the morning was very probably – more probably than not, in fact – looking for them.

He doubted that it was a message of welcome news.

“Udo,” Diaval called softly, beckoning the Tundra Fey to the bottom of the hillock, “Can you see who it is?”

“She is of the Tundra Fey.” he said, peering into the darkness, “I… I believe it is _Eira_. She is hardly more than a child – what is she doing out here alone in the middle of the night?”

“I’m goin’ to assume that it can’t be good, then. But why would the Dark Fey send a child?” 

The two men watched in silence as the young Fey drew ever closer, until she was finally near enough that they could discern the smile which spread across her face as she spotted them there at the base of the knoll. Pulling out of her cruising flight, she slowed, and finally alighted in the grass before them. Three steps later, she had thrown her arms around Udo, who returned her exuberant embrace with tender concern.

“Eira. What are you doing here?” he asked, enclosing the girl in the folds of his alabaster wings.

“Greetings, Uncle.” Eira replied, stepping back and drawing herself up to her full and unimpressive height. “I am here on behalf of Prince Phillip with a message for the Phoenix. Is she with you?”

Diaval blinked in surprise – _uncle_? This child was Udo’s niece? 

Within seconds, though, his conscious mind caught up with the unconscious, and the tacit meaning of her words sunk in. Diaval’s eyes widened and he fixed a wild stare upon the girl. “ _Phillip?_ Phillip sent you? Oh gods, somethin’ is wrong, isn’t it? He wouldn’t be botherin’ Maleficent otherwise. Is it Aurora? What’s wrong with Aurora?”

“Maleficent is with us.” Udo confirmed calmly.

“Maleficent, yes, of course! She’s with us, and Prince Wilfred too. She’s sleepin’ up on the knoll. Hold up and I’ll wake her.” Diaval confirmed, starting up the hillock before he had even finished speaking and tripping over his feet as he went. His heart hammered in his chest, any thoughts of his own misery having vanished in the face of a potential danger to his little girl.

He jogged quickly to the top and knelt by the opening to the shelter where Maleficent lay. She must have been tired; none of the commotion of Eira’s arrival had roused her, though Diaval could see the faint shadow of Shrike rolling about from further in the shelter. 

“Mistress!” he hissed, shaking Maleficent’s shoulder roughly, “Mistress, you need to wake up!”

Maleficent’s eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright, baring her fangs and hissing like an outraged wildcat. Defensive green magic was already spreading across her palms as her protective instincts took precedence over her conscious mind. Beside her, Wilfred began to squirm, roused by the sudden movement.

“S’all right, Mistress, it’s me! It’s just me and I’m not attackin’ you! There’s a Dark Fey girl here, she has a message for you from Phillip.”

“Phillip? Where is she?” Maleficent asked urgently, suddenly fully awake. She handed Wilfred to Diaval and all but flew from the shelter, making a beeline for where Udo and Eira stood at the base of the knoll.

“Wass the noise?” came Borra’s sleepy groan. The Desert Fey slowly started to haul himself up, moving before he was fully aware, but woke fully once he realised that something was afoot. He began to crawl through the shelter toward the opening, cuffing Shrike on the back of her head to wake her as he did. “Wake up, parrotface, something is going on.”

Diaval ignored him, choosing instead to follow Maleficent back down the hill. He could hear her imperious tone echoing through the still pre-dawn air.

“ _What is wrong with my daughter_?”

Eira inclined her head, acknowledging Maleficent’s concern but refusing to be intimidated by her. A redoubtable creature already, though she was, as Udo had said, barely more than a child.

“Phoenix. I am here at the behest of Prince Phillip. He has sent me to tell you that Queen Aurora is gravely ill, and he asks that you return to Ulstead Castle at once.” Eira’s expression softened, and she continued quietly, “He says that you are her only remaining hope.”

Maleficent was silent for several leaden seconds, staring at the young Tundra Fey in horror as her message sunk in. The breeze began to kick up, swirling about them in a tight circle and whipping the leaves of the hornbeam; a chorus of papery voices singing in a dissonant frenzy.

“No!” she snarled, shaking her head as though willing Eira’s words to disappear into the morning mist, “ _No!_ What have those humans done to her?!”

Maleficent’s eyes began to flicker in shades of vivid green as her magic reacted to her fear, incandescent flames issuing from her fingertips and surrounding her in a blaze of light. She roared at Eira, her pale face a twisted mask of panic and pain. To the girl’s credit, she did not back down, instead reiterating the final part of her message slowly and clearly.

“You are the only one who can save her, Phoenix.”

Diaval pushed forward, placing himself between Maleficent and Eira before his Mistress was able to unintentionally damage the girl; Udo quickly followed his cue and gently steered his niece out of the line of fire. Though Maleficent would never deliberately hurt one of her own kind, and certainly never a child, when it came to Aurora the Dark Fey could be extremely unpredictable. She simultaneously embraced and rebuffed her maternal instincts, and the result was generally a magical maelstrom over which Maleficent had surprisingly precarious control. Diaval had not yet met Eira, and so he assumed that she was a more recent arrival from the ancestral island. She had not seen Maleficent in full irascible flight during the Wedding Day Battle, having remained on the island with many of the other Fey children; she had no notion of precisely how volatile and dangerous the tempestuous woman before her could actually be when her magical command was at the mercy of her protective instincts.

The raven man leaned forward, fixing a resolute gaze upon Maleficent and trying to draw her ire away from the hapless Fey girl. To her credit, she allowed herself to be redirected, staring unflinchingly into his unfathomable eyes and focusing on them without so much as blinking.

“Mistress,” Diaval said with exaggerated calm, hoping that an even and direct tone would encourage her to adopt his composure in kind, “You have to go. Don’t worry about us, we’ll make our own way. Take Wilfred and go to her.” He ignored the dangerous swirling magic and pushed the drowsy baby into Maleficent’s arms. “Our daughter needs you.” he insisted, “She needs you, and you have to go to her. Go. Go now.”

Maleficent exhaled loudly, forcing air from her lungs as though trying to expel the instinctive ferocity which gripped her sense of reason. She stared at him, her pupils enormous pools of interminable blackness which all but eclipsed the brilliant green of her eyes. He maintained eye contact as she snarled and hissed, fighting with her inner self; one part of her consciousness struggling to assert her carefully cultivated rationality, the other clamouring for retributive blood.

Finally, Maleficent seemed to gain command over her wrath, her instinctive impulse toward vengeance acceding to her rational mind. She exhaled once more, shakily this time, and nodded, her eyes flying from Diaval to Wilfred to Eira, and finally back to Diaval. Her magic slowly receded, returning to where it dwelt within her as she regained control of herself. The madness which had threatened in the periphery of her eyes trickled away, leaving nothing but an expression of deep and powerful anxiety.

“Get them home safely.” she stressed, reaching for Diaval’s hand and giving it a brief squeeze.

“Yes, do.” Borra reiterated, coming up behind him before turning to address Maleficent. “I’ll go with you. It will help to have a second pair of eyes on the journey.” He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes as though to emphasise the point.

Diaval clenched his jaw; the last thing he wanted was Borra alone with his Mistress, especially under the circumstances. Few could read her well enough to know when to back off (if one wanted to live, in any case), and fewer still knew how to diffuse her ire when it manifested. Borra, as self-absorbed as he was, would have no hope of managing it.

The raven man could reasonably foresee considerable death and destruction in the immediate future. How could there not be, with the biggest braggart among the Dark Fey tagging along and talking Maleficent’s ear off until she blasted him bodily from the sky just to shut him up?

If his Mistress’ nonplussed expression was any indication, though, she did not realise that Borra might present an issue, though it was possible that she was so absorbed with worry about Aurora that she simply did not care. Either way, her feelings on Borra’s announcement appeared to be surprisingly neutral considering that she intended to mate the man.

Good.

Diaval blinked, shaking his head a little in surprise at the sudden intrusive thought.

Pinfeathers, was he _jealous_? He frowned, dismayed by the _humanness_ of his reaction. He had no business being jealous; it was unbecoming for a raven, and downright ugly in a man.

He couldn’t help the smug little voice in the back of his mind, though, softly muttering at the Desert Fey that he would never be good enough for the likes of Maleficent. Not that he believed that he was any worthier of her, a lowly raven such as himself, but it made him feel better in any case.

“If you wish it.” Maleficent replied to Borra as she spread her impressive wings, twice as wide as she was tall and gleaming gloriously in the fading starlight. Holding Wilfred tightly, she took to the sky without bothering with to say goodbye, quickly turning toward Ulstead and powering into the early morning as fast as her wings were capable of flying. 

Borra, smirking at his good fortune, leapt into the air after her, though Maleficent was moving with such speed that she was already disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom. He beat his wings rapidly, surging through the air to catch her up.

Diaval watched them go, wishing with everything that he had to be going with them. Though he had no true idea of Aurora’s condition, for Phillip to have sent Eira to find Maleficent when she was already engaged in rescuing his kidnapped son, his little girl had to be in dire straits. It all but killed him that he had to wait even a minute more to go to her.

As he watched the indistinct blotches of Maleficent and Borra merging into the indigo mantle of the sky, he gasped. Despite the distance, he felt the warm, familiar tug of Maleficent’s magic on his being, tingling in the depths of his body like a quiver of silent ecstasy. In a rush, he felt his man-shape dissolve, rearranging and moulding into a new being of her choosing, emerging into the gentle breeze of morning as though he had always existed that way.

It was a thrill short-lived, however, when he saw the perplexed expression on Shrike’s face in his peripheral vision and heard a cry of shock from Eira behind him.

Diaval tried to speak, but only a shrill squawk came out. Brilliant. What under the heavens had she turned him into? He turned to Shrike, meaning to try and ask her, but she was already way ahead of him, putting a hand on his – shoulder? Shoulderlike area? – and glaring skyward after the Dark Fey.

“A cockatrice, Maleficent?” Shrike called sardonically, well aware that the Forest Fey was already well out of earshot and had no means of rebuttal, “Could you have chosen a more frightening creature to change poor Diaval into? At least he doesn’t seem to be lethal as you would expect a cockatrice to be. Maybe don’t make eye contact, though, just in case.” she muttered to Eira and Udo.

Diaval crooned miserably; it was the closest approximation to speech that he was capable of, given that he now possessed the face of a _rooster_ , of all things. He turned to investigate the alarming arrowlike tail and enormous leathery wings which he now sported and snorted in disgust. His beautiful self was _hideous_.

“I will wake the humans,” Udo said, “But perhaps, Diaval, you had best stay here until I have had a chance to warn them about your appearance… among other things.”

“Especially if they’re going to be riding him.” Shrike added, crossing her arms and examining him shrewdly. She looked almost amused by the situation, though she was studiously avoiding direct eye contact.

Diaval groaned low in his throat and forced his gaze downward, away from the others. If Maleficent had intended him to be a flying horse, then why hadn’t she just turned him into a Pegasus, for pity’s sake? At least then Ekkert and Vætki were less likely to run screaming back to the ruins of Járnahöll. A _cockatrice_? He would have to fly at a ridiculous altitude until well after dawn to avoid hearing any errant roosters welcoming the new day. What a ridiculous thing to change him into on the verge of daybreak; a creature which could be killed by the crow of a rooster! Was she entirely mad, or merely some class of sadist? 

In saying that, she _had_ thought to change him into something, ill-considered afterthought or not, and he supposed that he could find it within himself to be _somewhat_ grateful. He would not have to walk back to Ulstead with the siblings and take weeks to do so, all the while unaware of Aurora’s condition. In this form, hideous as he was, it would only take a day’s hard flying from where they were, even with two passengers on his back.

He might inadvertently drop dead without warning if they flew over a farm, and he might scare the living daylights out of everyone – not to mention potentially kill them if he looked directly into their eyes – but at least he could fly.

And if he could fly, he could get them back to Aurora by nightfall.


	20. Chapter 20

Nightfall might have been a generous estimate.

In Diaval’s defence, though, he had not anticipated just quite _how_ opposed Vætki would be to going _near_ him, never mind climbing on his back and soaring above the clouds. Nor had he foreseen how protective she would become of her brother, whose elbow she seized in a white-knuckled death grip when he made to move toward Diaval, clenching until he whined loudly in pain and twisted away from her, falling to his knees.

“No,” she had replied emphatically to Udo’s gentle encouragement, her nerves expressing themselves in a huff of mirthless laughter which was audible even above Ekkert's umbrageous howls, “Not on your life. I don’t even know what that thing _is_. Where are Diaval and Maleficent? Where is the baby?”

Between proving to the girl that he _was_ Diaval (this involved a number of mortifying party tricks, including pecking the ground the specific number of times that she instructed him to and repeating the happy raven dance that he had charmed her with when first in his bird shape in her presence – Ekkert joined him in the latter with spirited enthusiasm), reassuring her that Wilfred, Maleficent and Borra were perfectly safe and had merely gone on ahead, and working out precisely how he would be able to carry the siblings without one of them slipping off and falling to their death, Diaval’s concern about cockatrices flying at dawn was a moot point. The sun was well into the sky by the time he and the three Dark Fey finally took off for Ulstead, the two humans tethered to his coriaceous back by means of some Udo-enhanced vines wrapped around their middles as ad hoc harnesses.

Diaval immediately made for the quiet space just below the level of the sparse cumulus clouds, wary of the possibility of being in earshot of any chronologically challenged roosters. They would be fine once they crossed the border from Perceforest into Ulstead, as the arable farmland in Phillip’s home kingdom was to the east of the main population, but the land that they had to pass through before that point was riddled with agriculture.

There was nothing quiet about the space below the clouds _that_ morning, however, because Ekkert had positioned himself astride Diaval’s wing joints, in front of his sister, in prime position to prattle incessantly in the raven-cockatrice’s ear about every single blessed thing which popped into the vacant space between his ears.

“It looks like a carpet. Grass isn’t a carpet. It looks like a carpet up here, though. Is that a bird? What sort of bird is that? Do you know that bird, Diaval? Is that bird your friend? Do you have a lot of bird friends? Why are you a bird? Why did Maleficent turn you into a man? Does she like you better as a man? Why did she turn you into this thing? What _are_ you? Where is _she_? Did she take the baby? Is that smoke over there? Do you think there’s a fire? I lit a fire once. We had a stable in the north-west corner. I accidentally burned it down. The Master was so cross. Vætki was cross too. You were cross, weren’t you, Vætki? The horses got away. I only had five then. I hope my horses will be all right. I should go back and get them. Can we go and get them soon? What sort of bird is _that_? Is that one your friend?”

Cockatrices, as it turned out, were unable to roll their eyes, an observation which brought Diaval no end of irritation. He had no real means of responding to Ekkert, but that hardly seemed to register at any point in the lad’s inane monologue. He had more or less tuned the lad’s babbling out.

More or less.

“Why aren’t you and Maleficent married?”

Diaval nearly fell out of the sky.

Flying beside him, Shrike actually did, curling up and howling with laughter as she dropped some fifteen feet in a matter of seconds.

“Yes, Diaval,” she snorted, righting herself and returning to his side in an exuberant flourish of varicoloured feathers, “Why _aren’t_ you and Maleficent married?”

Diaval growled, willing Shrike to drop the subject, and tried to fly ahead of her to emphasise his annoyance. The last thing he needed was Ekkert to be encouraged in that particular topic.

“He loves her, you know.” the boy called back to her, “He yelled it at the sky. Scared the horses.”

Oh great. _Shut up, Ekkert_ , Diaval begged internally. He was already in turmoil over his feelings and his Mistress and her grand and terrible plan; he absolutely did not need the commentary of a gang of determined hecklers.

Shrike, on the other hand, seemed more than keen to take on a leadership role in said gang of hecklers. “ _Did he now_? When was this?” she questioned Ekkert, who bounced enthusiastically on Diaval’s back at her attention.

“When he found me in the cold desert. He was sad. Crying. He yelled, ‘I love you, Maleficent! And no langer gobshite with feathers in shreds will ever change that!’. He was very loud.”

Wonderful. The boy hardly knew his knee from his elbow, but he had somehow managed to recall Diaval’s words _verbatim_.

It was probably too much to hope that Shrike would discreetly drop the subject.

“Langer gobshite with feathers in shreds?” she whistled, impressed at Diaval’s insult, “Now I wonder who _that_ could be?”

_Oh please shut up, Shrike. Please, please, please shut up…_

“I think it’s the other faerie man. The one who went with her.” Ekkert replied earnestly. Apparently sarcasm sailed merrily over his head. “Are you sad about that, Diaval?”

“Borra, yes.” Shrike replied, mercifully ignoring Ekkert’s question – she could be considerate when it suited her, Diaval supposed. It was not as though he could answer Ekkert as a cockatrice, but the reminder was painful enough. It went without saying he was sad about it. He was sad and hurt and angry and fearful and he had no desire to think any further on it, even as he concurrently thought of nothing else in his concern about Maleficent’s state of mind. He should be with her. Though there was little that he could do to ease her distress about Aurora – only seeing and being able to help their daughter would alleviate that – he could at least _try_.

The shrewd Jungle Fey gliding at his right shoulder, however, was a long way from done with the subject of Borra. “He’s nice enough once you get to know him, but he’s all wrong for her. Two hotheads – all they would do is fight. Don’t you agree, Diaval?”

Diaval snorted. She was right, of course, completely so, but he was too annoyed at her to give her the satisfaction of his affirmation.

His assertion hardly mattered, it seemed, because Shrike was on a roll. “I have a second cousin, though – now she would be a perfect match for Borra. Great sense of humour, but she wouldn’t take his nonsense. He would strut and brag and she’d laugh in his face about it.”

“Much like yourself?” Udo called from Diaval’s left.

Shrike laughed depreciatingly. “Very much like myself – except that she might actually consider him. We have a moral obligation to deflate him when he puffs himself up too much. It gets in the way of his better impulses.”

“I cannot deny it. He is a great leader, but he will be a magnificent one once he grows up a bit.” Udo agreed.

Shrike returned her attention to Diaval. “But what I would like to know is why you, dear raven, are so shy about courting your lovely mistress when you are not _remotely_ shy in any other way imaginable. How a creature who shamelessly bathes in the Moorland hot springs without wearing so much as a blush – and yes, Diaval, we’re all _well_ aware, and I’m not the only one who has had an ogle, for the record – can be so bashful about telling the woman he loves the truth so that they can move on happily together is incomprehensible. I’d insist that you explain yourself, but that might have to wait until you have a speaking mouth again. I’m not fluent in Overgrown Chicken.”

Diaval snapped his beak in her general direction, though he closed his eyes, just in case. He had no desire to be responsible for any accidental killings, even though it would technically be Maleficent’s fault for changing him into something so involuntarily dangerous.

“You’re both as bad as each other. You love her, but you’re afraid to tell her. She loves you – don’t deny it, you glorified pigeon, she _does_ – but she’s afraid to admit it.”

 _Glorified pigeon?_ He was going to have to seriously rethink his friendship with Shrike if she continued to engage in such aspersions upon his character. A _pigeon_ , indeed. How incredibly rude of her to liken his lovely self to one of those disease-ridden balls of mange.

“What a pair of flying disasters you are.” Shrike continued merrily, “Just have a deep and meaningful discussion already and lay it bare, and then when you’re done with that and understand each other… you can lay it bare again.” she smirked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Cockatrices might be unable to roll their eyes, but mercifully, they were also unable to _blush_.

“I’m not looking at you, Diaval, because it might be lethal right now, but you can wipe the incredulous expression that I _know_ is on your face off it again. You don’t know what you’re missing out on.” Shrike insisted.

“What is he missing out on?” Eira piped up from the other side of Udo, intrigued. She angled herself toward the conversation, her wings spread as widely as they could go.

“Ask your parents.” her uncle muttered.

“Yes, what is he missing out on?” Ekkert echoed. “I don’t have parents to ask.”

“Never mind, this conversation is completely inappropriate.” Vætki muttered, “Can we please talk about something else?”

_Thank you, Vætki. I always did like you._

“Where is the baby?” Ekkert asked suddenly. Diaval could feel him shifting about, turning this way and that as though expecting to find Wilfred sailing through the air behind them.

He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or embarrassed by how long it had taken the boy to notice properly. Ekkert had been doing cartwheels up and down the meadow when Udo had told Vætki where the missing three travellers had gone, and at no point had he asked aside from rhetorical babbling. 

Still, four and a half hours was an absurdly long time to not really realise that three of their party were absent.

“Maleficent took him ahead to his mother. She’s ill.” Vætki answered tiredly.

“Maleficent is ill?”

“No, Wilfred’s mother is ill.”

“Oh. And he will make her better?”

Vætki sighed. Diaval could almost feel her strain in the way that she slumped on his back, and he could hardly blame her. She had seen and experienced far too much pain and wretchedness for one so young, such that she now had the soul of a wizened great-grandmother in the body of a woman barely removed from her teens. 

When they got to Ulstead, after he’d seen Aurora and made sure that she was going to be all right, he would ensure that he had the siblings set up properly – organise somewhere nice, and more importantly, _safe_ , for them to live and convince Phillip to give them both jobs in the castle so that they might have a source of income and a means to start afresh in life. He owed it to them, on behalf of the fates who had been so unkind, to try and make the rest of the lives an improvement on the beginning of them.

“Wilfred is only a baby, Ekkert. One day, a long time from now, he will be a king and rule over all of Ulstead, but right now he’s only little and can’t do anything. He certainly can’t heal his mother, although his presence alone will probably help.” Vætki said, a troubled darkness in her tone which told Diaval that she was not thinking of Wilfred alone, “But Maleficent has magic. You’ve seen that. Maybe one of her powers is the power of healing.”

Diaval grunted loudly and nodded, causing Ekkert to shriek, then giggle hysterically.

“I though I was going to fall!” he laughed, and gripped Diaval’s neck firmly.

“Maleficent has many abilities,” Udo told the siblings, ignoring Ekkert’s outburst, “One of which is the power to heal the sick or the injured. She cannot, however, heal someone who is too close to death. That is why she left as soon as Eira arrived with her message – there was no time to lose. We can only hope that she is not already too late.”

At his words, Diaval groaned softly and sped up, his great leathery wings flapping so fast that they appeared to blur against the cerulean backdrop of the sky. Udo was right. Maleficent’s powers were great – far greater than any of the other Dark Fey, and stronger still since her death and resurrection, but even she could not bring someone back from the precipice of death. There were some illnesses, some injuries, which were simply too severe to be healed.

He did not want to think about what would happen if Maleficent did not make it to Ulstead in time to save Aurora. He would not – he _could_ not – contemplate the worst possible outcome.

No, Maleficent would make it in time. She would move heaven and earth themselves for her beloved daughter, and nothing, not time nor illness nor the cruel whims of fate, would keep his Mistress from their little one’s side at her time of need.

Maleficent would make it. He was certain of it. She would make it in time, with plenty of time, and heal their precious Beastie of the scourge which ailed her. They would all be together again soon, hale and hearty, ready to put this whole sorry episode behind them.

Still, Diaval mustered every ounce of strength that he possessed and powered through the air on his strange foreign wings, as though his own life depended upon him doing so.

Perhaps, he thought, it did.

* * *

The boy was whining and squirming in her arms as she flew, a chubby, flaxen little princeling grappling with an unaccustomed degree of misery and discomfort not befitting the rights of one born of such noble blood. Though he had adapted admirably to his kidnapping and rescue, barely made a peep all the way through a cold, dark tunnel in the ground (according to Diaval, who was seldom known to lie about anything, much less about something which did not necessitate bending the truth) and slept through the previous night without so much as a squawk, it was clear that even Wilfred’s easygoing adaptability had reached its limits.

Shushing him was becoming less and less effective with each passing minute.

He whimpered pathetically, nuzzling his upturned nose into Maleficent’s chest and slobbering all over the front of her dress. He failed to find what he was after, however, and rather forcefully slapped at her breast with a pudgy little hand and a grunt of irritation.

“You will get nothing from those, young man. Right now they are aesthetic, not functional.” she arched an eyebrow at him, “You are hungry, I take it?”

Wilfred locked his sky blue gaze on her and babbled seriously, “Ah guh bah-bah-bah _dah_.”

“Of course.” Maleficent replied with equal earnestness.

It was something of a problem, actually. She scolded herself for not thinking to have Vætki feed the baby before they had left, though she acknowledged that perhaps she had not been thinking as clearly as she would have preferred. It would not have sated Wilfred for the entire day, but it would have bought them a few more hours of uninterrupted flight time.

Milkblooms, the bulbous flowers whose sweet, creamy sap had provided a source of nourishment to Aurora in her infancy, were out of the question. Though they were proliferative plants which grew both in the Moors and in the wilder areas of Perceforest, they also tended to prefer colder weather, and were far more numerous in the winter. Now, in the late summer, it would be difficult to find them flowering in any place but for a few cooler pockets deep within the Moors. A detour to find them would take hours – hours which Aurora did not have.

Fair folk who were unable to feed their young ones relied upon Milkblooms, but they also seldom strayed far from their sources in leaner times. Humans, on the other hand, seemed inclined to employ other humans as wet nurses when they had the wealth to be able to do so.

What did the peasants do? What was something analogous to human milk which was accessible to the poorer sort, eking out a miserable existence in the sweat and toil of working the land?

Wilfred suddenly tensed in Maleficent’s arms, grunting and reddening like a little blonde tomato, and pulled a face at her which reminded her unpleasantly of his paternal grandmother.

Perhaps it was an unconscious connecting of clues as a result of the boy’s expression, or perhaps it was the odious stench which issued from his napkin immediately thereafter which caused Maleficent’s brainwave. Either way, as she waved her hand toward the child’s rear to clean him with her magic, she realised the solution.

“Borra,” she called to the Desert Fey who flew to her left – a self-appointed aerial guardian, “We need to find a farm with livestock. Wilfred is hungry.”

He glanced at the grizzling baby curiously, almost as though it bewildered him that human infants needed to eat occasionally. “He needs milk, doesn’t he?”

“He does, hence the farm.”

Borra shrugged. “There should be more than a few of those around here.”

“We crossed the border into Perceforest some time ago. Much of the south has been co-opted for agriculture, but we have a way to go before we reach it. The north is far less inhabited.”

Peering into the distance, Borra shaded the side of his face against the glare of the sun and squinted toward the horizon. “There appears to be an area of farmland ahead of us – I’d say about twenty, twenty-five miles directly south of here. The human locusts have made the land into one of their patchwork quilts.”

“Hm. Let us hope that the humans have animals as well as crops.”

Maleficent scoured the landscape, never breaking the steady, swift pace of her flight. The mosaic of cropland spread out before them from horizon to horizon as they approached; the natural world given over to the needs of the humans, bending to their will as lords of the land and bowing, cowering beneath their ploughs and harrows.

A short way ahead, a little farm emerged from behind a copse atop a low fell, one of a series which split the surrounding dales into smaller fragments. A flock of sheep grazed on the side of the next fell, tufts of white against the lush green of the pasture in which they dwelt.

At the centre of the farm sat a small, run-down cottage with a roof of mossy thatch. A human woman, her russet head wrapped in a kerchief and her waist in a filthy apron, toted a toddler on her hip as she tossed her family’s tattered clothing, freshly laundered, over a railing fence to dry. Chickens scratched about the cottage, searching for worms and beetles in the hard-packed soil. A solitary nanny-goat brayed from a hitching post near a collapsing barn, and a sow and her piglets ran about in a small sty, squealing for slops, as a peasant with a pitchfork hoisted soiled hay from their pen. A creek burbled slowly by the cottage and through the fields of ripening wheat, golden and swaying gently in the late summer breeze.

Golden, like Aurora’s curls.

Curls which no doubt lay sweaty upon a pillow of silk, dull and matted from days of serious illness. Her precious girl, dying in a kingdom all too far away, hopeless but for the miracle which only Maleficent herself might be able to perform.

They had to be quick.

She turned suddenly to the side, dropping in altitude as she changed direction to make haste to the farm. It was small, but it would do for her purposes.

She could hear the shrieks of the humans as they spotted her approach. The woman slung the child over her shoulder and ran into the cottage, screaming to her mate in an unfamiliar tongue. The man, however, was rooted to where he stood by the pigpen, staring up at her and watching her descent with a look of unspeakable terror on his ruddy face.

Landing in front of the petrified peasant farmer, Maleficent folded her wings behind her and made a wholehearted attempt at a friendly smile.

The farmer looked from her glistening fangs to Wilfred, who lay in her arms with an expression of keen interest on his adorable face, then back again, his eyes widening even further as Borra set down behind her with a brisk, “Morning, human.” 

Maleficent could almost see the thoughts running through his mind – a pair of fae, with a human baby – no doubt stolen – and here she was before him, probably intending to steal away his own child as well. Was that not what the fair folk did, after all?

He clutched at his pitchfork even more tightly, moving it in front of him as though to shield himself from her very presence.

“I apologise for bothering you,” Maleficent began, hearing the echo of Diaval’s voice in her mind telling her that being nice to people made them far more likely to want to help, “But I am rather pressed for time and cannot engage in pleasantries. Might I borrow your goat?”

His eyes like saucers, the farmer took a step back, colliding with the wooden railing of the pigpen and almost tripping. A dark stain spread across the front of his breeches as he nodded madly. He looked as though he was about to cry. Maleficent broadened her smile, showing off her bright white fangs.

The farmer dropped the pitchfork.

All bravery deserting him, the hapless man let out a terrified shriek and bolted, running headlong into his meagre cottage and slamming the door behind him. Maleficent heard the dull thunk of the sliding bolt as he locked it, followed by the torturous scraping of something very heavy being dragged across the earthen floor and pushed up against the door as a barricade. 

Odd that he would think that such a thing would keep them out.

“Hmm.” she commented nonchalantly, raising her eyebrows.

Turning to the goat, which (unlike her master) appeared entirely unafraid, Maleficent murmured gently, “The child needs milk. May he have some of yours?”

The goat brayed softly, stamping her front foot into the dirt, then turned sideways so that the Dark Fey might approach. Maleficent closed the distance between them carefully and knelt beside her.

“You have my thanks,” she whispered.

Now, if only she knew how to get the milk _out_ of the goat and into Wilfred.

It seemed simple enough in theory – pull on the teat in the correct manner, and the milk should flow. She had seen farmers doing it on occasion. Indeed, Stefan had once spent an afternoon, long ago, when they were about thirteen years of age, regaling her with the intricacies of peasant farmwork, which included the finer points of goat-milking. She possessed enough theoretical knowledge to be able to manage such a task.

She wondered what Diaval would have to say at the sight of her milking a goat.

Grasping the teat in her left hand, Maleficent manouvered Wilfred beneath it with her right. It took a few moments for her to find the appropriate wrist movement, and she found herself mentally commending the goat on her patience, but before long, a stream of thick milk issued from the goat’s udder and into the waiting mouth of her grandson.

“You have quite a knack for that.” Borra commented saucily, watching her with flagrant interest from where he had, once again, positioned himself beside her.

Maleficent looked up and raised an eyebrow at him, confused by both his comment and the lascivious smirk which accompanied it. She was milking a goat like a common farmhand; what on Earth was so appealing about such a menial task?

She could think of no other way to respond but to give him a task. “Borra, have a look around and see if you can find something edible that we can take away. Wilfred may be the baby, but I daresay he is not the only one who is hungry.”

“Something edible, eh? I’ll see what I can find.” the Desert Fey grinned, his eyes roving up and down the length of her. He gave her a knowing look, then turned and sauntered toward the cottage.

Maleficent shook her head a little and shrugged. He could be an odd sort, sometimes. She supposed that she would have to become used to his foibles in due course, but right now, they only served as a distraction. She needed Wilfred fed, and the three of them on their way again as soon as possible. Every minute of delay was a minute which may prove crucial for Aurora.

She glanced up again as a thunderous crash issued from the now-open door of the cottage. The goat started at the noise, and she was forced to send a wisp of magic toward it to lull it into somnolence before it took off with Wilfred’s breakfast. Craning her neck around it, she frowned at the sight of Borra striding into the cottage as though he owned the place.

The humans screamed.

“Steady on,” Maleficent heard Borra laugh, “I’m just after something to eat. I promise it won’t be _you_ , you’d probably taste all stringy. If I were going to eat a human, I would go for a fat and indolent one; a nobleman, not a farmer. More flavourful that way.”

“Falbh air falbh, sìthiche olc! Please don’ hurt us!”

Borra laughed. “Best that you don’t give me a reason to hurt you, then.”

Sounds issued from the cottage which told her that Borra was rifling through the humans’ stores; the odd sound of satisfaction here and there informing her that he was happy with whatever it was that he was finding. Every so often, she heard the woman shriek or the man cry out, and once or twice she discerned the whimpers of their little child.

“What’s the matter with you, young lass?” Borra asked, “I’m not going to steal you away, if that’s what you’re worried about. We already have one human child to concern ourselves with; we’re hardly going to saddle ourselves with another. And you, lad,” Maleficent heard Borra say – apparently there was a second child as well – “You are far too old to be taken by fairies. You’re near enough to a man already.”

After several more long minutes of rustling and thumping about in the human dwelling, occasionally grunting without warning at the inhabitants and chortling at the resultant cries of fear, Borra emerged with a sack of plundered food slung over his shoulder and a triumphant look on his face. He nodded toward Maleficent, grinning, and took off, hovering some fifteen feet in the air to wait for her with enough distance between himself and the humans to avoid them trying to steal his bounty back again.

 _As though they would_ , Maleficent thought wryly. Borra had probably frightened them all into paralysis.

Wilfred, finally sated, turned his face away from the spray of goat milk, the last stream sending rivulets of white across the bridge of his nose and into the soil. He smiled at Maleficent and belched loudly, spitting up a bit down his front.

“Charming,” she replied, cleaning him with her magic once again, “And you are to be a king someday.”

The baby giggled.

Rising from her crouch, Maleficent petted the goat in thanks, inclining her head and smiling into the nanny’s strange horizontal pupils. The goat had no true understanding, but nevertheless, Maleficent felt that her gratitude had been acknowledged. 

She stepped back, prepared to take flight, when an unexpected little voice behind her stopped her in her tracks.

“Excuse me?”

The voice was timid and painfully young, but it was not that which gave her pause. No – it was that the child who spoke possessed a familiar, lilting brogue, a whisper from the depth of her past which send shivers of ice up and down the length of Maleficent’s spine…

…to the very tips of her quivering wings.

_“One day, I’m goin’ to live there...”_

She gasped, momentarily overcome, willing the echoes of simpler times from her consciousness.

_“I thought it worth the risk…”_

It was a common enough accent among the poorer folk in Perceforest. She had no business being surprised by it, even if the sound of it from the lips of a child set her to trembling and reeling into remembrances.

_“I like your wings…”_

Maleficent squeezed her eyes closed, trying to banish the memories of the one who had loved her then all but destroyed her. She felt around behind her with her free hand, stroking the edges of her primaries to calm the rapid juddering of her heart.

 _Your wings are still there, warm and solid against your back, steadfast as ever_ , she reminded herself sternly, _and this child is not him._

She scolded herself for being ridiculous. Stefan was dead. Even had he not been consigned to the guardianship of the next world, he had not been a child for decades. She had nothing to fear from this boy. He was not Stefan. He had neither the power over her nor the motive within himself to tear her beloved wings from her back, similar though he may sound to her childhood love.

Maleficent held her wings tightly against herself, steeling her resolve, and turned, all but expecting to see a mop of unbrushed hair framing a pair of dark brown eyes and a small, but decidedly aquiline, nose.

The lad was the right age to have been Stefan when she had met him, innocent and sweet as he was as a boy, but mercifully, that was where the similarities ended. His hair was as carrot red as his mother’s, for a start, and though his eyes were brown, they were entirely unlike those of the one who had betrayed her. His nose, if anything, resembled those of the pigs in the sty nearby, and was peppered with freckles more numerous than the stars in the night sky. 

He regarded her earnestly, unafraid, his youth and innocence affording him a curiosity which the cruelty of his peasant life had not yet beaten from him. Someday, no doubt someday soon, he would leave his childhood behind and stretch out into a man, broken even before reaching his maturity, as the reality of his helot existence left him as little more than a resentful shell who glared accusingly at the lords who owned his land and his very life.

But now, though, in this singular moment, the boy looked upon her as an equal, and feared her not.

Maleficent let out a breath that she had not realised she had been holding.

The child was holding out a simple toy, whittled from a single piece of dark oakwood into the shape of a dragon – a wyvern – its great wings carved flush against its back and its mouth open, preparing to let loose a jet of flame. 

Though the overall design was basic, the workmanship was extraordinary, and the detailing superb. Superb enough that Maleficent immediately recognised that the creature had not been shaped from the fanciful imaginings of the artist, but had instead been taken from life. She would have known the model for the toy anywhere, for his dragon shape was as familiar to her as his human one.

“Diaval.” she murmured with a curious smile. The likeness was extraordinary. But how…?

The boy held it out further, unafraid. “For the bairn, ma’am. Me Da made it fer me when he come back from the castle when I were a little ‘un. Said he’d seen it there, clear as day, breathin’ fire and burnin’ up the tower. Mebbe the wee lad’d like it?”

Maleficent regarded the boy, who smiled at her and nodded toward the toy dragon. Slowly, she reached out and took it from him, examining it for a moment before offering it to Wilfred. The baby grasped it firmly, staring at it in innocent wonder.

“Thank you.” she said, surprisingly herself with the gratitude in her tone.

Without breaking eye contact with the boy, she spread her wings widely, the rising breeze fluttering her coverts. The boy gaped at her, his expression a curious combination of admiration and awe, with the vaguest hint of fear thrown in for good measure.

“Good day to ye, ma’am.” he smiled, bowing to her, every bit the gentleman for all that he was of tender years.

“Samson!” a voice hissed from within the darkness of the cottage, “Come away wit ye, now! Ye dunna talk wit Fae!”

The boy, Samson, glanced back at the cottage door, where his mother’s work-roughened hand beckoned to him. He looked back at Maleficent.

“Good day, Samson.” she farewelled, and took to the air, rising swiftly upward as the boy watched in fascination from the farmyard below.

* * *

They continued southward as the sun moved slowly across the summer sky, battling through the heat of the day and on into the evening.

Borra’s sack of stolen food proved invaluable, allowed them to remain in the air and powering through the miles toward Ulstead Castle without having to stop for longer than a few minutes again.

Maleficent ate little, however, worried as she was for Aurora’s welfare. Every minute that was not spent flying as fast as her wings allowed was a minute wasted, a minute which the Beastie may not have to spare. She felt a deep unrest within her soul; she sensed, more than felt, the mysterious bond which had formed between her and the Moorland Queen, now wavering in and out as Aurora, all too far away, fought for her life.

Wilfred was proving remarkable stoic, as though he somehow understood the urgency of their mission and his role in the success of it. After his mid-morning meal of fresh goat’s milk, he had quickly fallen asleep, lulled by the rhythmic beating of Maleficent’s wings, and had remained that way for several hours with nary a peep.

Now, awake once more as the day drew to a close, he cuddled into his grandmother, clutching his carved wyvern and softly babbling to it, pausing periodically to await a response.

“One day, I will change your grandfather and show you the real thing,” Maleficent promised him, “When you are of an age to be suitably impressed by it.”

“The carving that the human boy gave him – that is the raven?” Borra asked her.

“It is indeed Diaval.” She refrained from scolding Borra, once again, for mysteriously forgetting the raven man’s name, though she was almost certain that it was intentional; an assertion of dominance, perhaps.

Males in general were odd, the lot of them, with their petty jealousies and their primitive chest-beating, all as a result of some innate desire to be the leader, the alpha male, the winner of whatever idiotic competition they had set themselves upon. Even Diaval, gentle, compassionate soul that he was, had been known to engage in such behaviours on occasion, though he was naturally more reticent than Borra and many of the other Dark Fey males.

“How could that be?”

“The boy’s father made it. He must have been at the castle in Perceforest on Aurora’s sixteenth birthday – perhaps one of Stefan’s guards – and he saw Diaval in his dragon form that night. His memory for detail is excellent. It looks just like him, right down to the expression on its face.”

“That was the night that you got your wings back?”

Maleficent hesitated, unwilling to dredge up the bitter anguish surrounding the gloriousness of that particular memory. “Yes.”

“Good thing, too. I remember some of the discussions about you from back then. The last descendent of the Phoenix, trapped on the ground like a human. Nobody knew what to do with you.”

Maleficent did not respond. It sickened her that the Dark Fey had discussed her in such a manner, treating her as an invalid or a child, unable to participate in the decision-making which directly affected her. She had been disabled for many years, yes, but her faculties remained intact even in the darkest of times. She had been afforded no agency in her own life and denied information which may have altered the course of events for the better. There had been no good reason for the Dark Fey to remain distant from her, at a time in her life when the support of her own kind would have proven invaluable. Instead, she had survived by her own wits and through the love of a raven who had owed her his life.

She exhaled forcefully, cognisant of the magic which simmered just below the surface of her skin, begging to be released onto a wretched victim.

“Fortunate that you have such a strong healing ability. Who would have thought that a pair of wings could continue to live and then reattach themselves after – how long was it?”

“Seventeen years.” Maleficent muttered, gritting her teeth.

“Seventeen _years_. I don’t know how you managed for so long, not being able to fly.”

It was terribly unkind of her, but she suddenly wanted to punch him in the head.

“I managed through the kindness and understanding of the Moorfolk, who did not turn me out despite my anger and pain. I managed because Aurora proved too loveable to keep from falling in love with.” she sighed, “I managed because I had Diaval, who never gave up on me, despite all that I did and all that I put him through.”

“He is a servant; it is what they do.”

“He _was_ a servant, but he has not been for many years. Not since the day that Aurora was crowned Queen of the Moors. And he could have left at any time, despite that. He stayed. I owe him a great deal.” she smiled, remembering a reluctant conversation with a young Aurora from years before. The words that she had used to describe the wings that she had been born with were all too apt for her beloved raven friend as well. “He was my wings, and he never faltered. He has never faltered. Not once.”

And yet, she had left him behind once again. He had urged her to go, yes, selfless creature that he was, because he recognised immediately that she was integral to Aurora’s survival, but _she had gone_. She had gone, and she had left him behind, though his love and concern for Aurora was no less profound than her own.

She had already been well out of earshot when she had finally come back to herself for long enough to change him into something more useful than a human, something which could fly above the land at speed and make it back to Ulstead quickly, even with the two humans on his back – but even then, she had reacted without thinking. She had changed him into the first large, winged creature that had graced her frenetic thoughts, a _cockatrice_ , of all things. A creature that for all of its physical prowess, was desperately vulnerable to the crow of a rooster. A creature which could kill with a glance.

She had left him vulnerable.

No doubt he had already forgiven her.

* * *

“Mother!”

Startled awake, Phillip sat up suddenly and grasped Aurora’s icy hand. It was so tiny, sitting there in his palms, chapped from dehydration and turning a frightening mottled grey. He stroked it helplessly.

“She’s on her way, my love.” God in heaven, he hoped that it was true. It had been over a day since Eira had left Ulstead, but he had no way of knowing if the girl had even _found_ Maleficent yet, never mind if the Dark Fey woman was on her way to them.

All that Phillip had left to him was faith, and even that was beginning to fray into wretched nothingness.

“Mother…” Aurora whispered. Her lips, dry and cracked from fever, split with the movement. Blood welled up from the wound and slowly began to trickle down her chin, leaving behind a trail of crimson, stark against her ashen skin.

Phillip reached for washcloth which sat in a bowl of water on the small table beside the bed and wrung it out. Gently, as though fearing that too sudden a movement might shatter his wife entirely, he sponged the blood from below her mouth, moistening her lips with the damp cloth as he did.

“Mother… Wilfred! Where is Wilfred?” she gasped, her eyelids fluttering as she fought her way into consciousness.

“She is coming, my sunrise. They both are. They will be here soon.” Phillip replied, the fervent sincerity of his tone belying his unease. He had to believe that Maleficent was coming with their son. He had to believe that she would arrive in time. Without that hope, there was nothing left but to spiral into death a moment behind his truest love, a life without her sunshine as unfathomable as it was unwanted.

In the bed, Aurora gasped, struggling to breathe as her illness ravaged her weakened body. For several long, painful seconds, Phillip watched in horror as his wife fought desperately for every breath, her chest rising and falling erratically as she laboured.

_No… no… please God no, don’t let this be it. Not yet. Not when hope is so close! Fight, my love. Fight!_

Finally, with a tiny sigh, her eyes fluttered closed again, her breathing settling back into a more normal rhythm.

“Aurora? Aurora!”

She had fallen asleep, too weak to remain awake for a moment longer. Sighing in despair and trembling, verging on tears, Phillip bent and pressed his lips into her sweaty brow, lingering there for a moment in silent prayer, begging the almighty not to take her from him.

Finally, he rose, and crossed the short distance from Aurora’s bed to the large double doors which opened onto the balcony. Opening them, he pushed them outward as far as they would go and stepped out into the evening air. Searching the sky to the north of Ulstead, he willed that Maleficent hear his thoughts, his entreaties, his _desperation_.

“Please, Maleficent, she’s fading,” Phillip whispered into the falling dusk, “Please, I beg of you, _hurry_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:
> 
> Falbh air falbh, sìthiche olc! – Go away, evil fairy!
> 
> Samson the peasant boy – Samson was the name of Prince Phillip’s horse in Sleeping Beauty, and I feel that he needs more recognition.


	21. Chapter 21

“Once this is all over, come to the island with me for a while.” Borra said suddenly. The gruff brashness of his voice startled Maleficent from the quiet fugue state into which she had slipped, lulled by the rhythmic beating of her wings and the steady warmth of Wilfred in her arms.

She blinked, suddenly all too aware of the anxious thudding her own heart and the abrupt increase in her pulse at his suggestion. He had only ever played at courtship before, teasing and hinting at a desire for her rather than being forthright about it, and she preferred it that way. This, however, was a step up, and she was not entirely certain how she felt about it. A visit to the island, together? What could it mean? 

What _should_ it mean?

Maleficent turned her head slightly to where Borra flew beside her. He had angled his body toward her, barely distant enough for their wings to move without touching. Proximate as he was, she could trace the deep, almost lithoid cracking of his skin with her eyes, that distinctive feature which was entirely unique to the Desert Fey, and follow it along his face to the elongated, tusklike horns which rose straight up from his forehead, anterior to the tangled blonde mess of his hair. Were Borra to sit atop a castle wall and curl up upon himself, he could easily be mistaken for a sandstone gargoyle.

After several solemn moments, during which the dishevelled Fey eyed her keenly to the point of discomfort, Maleficent opted to answer Borra as truthfully as she could without actually answering him at all. “Perhaps. It ultimately depends upon Aurora.”

Borra frowned; clearly, her reply had not been the one he had been expecting. “How so? She is the Queen of the Moors, but I did not think that you answered to her.” His frown deepened, his jaw tightening as though in preparation for a confrontation.

“I do not, nor would she expect me to. No, it is far simpler. Once I have healed her, she may require some convalescent time. I will not leave her if she is anything less than completely healthy.” Maleficent stated firmly, leaving no leeway for a counterargument. Surely Borra would not think her so coldhearted as to abandon her only child for a jaunt which could easily occur later, at a more appropriate time?

Perhaps her reputation as the Mistress of All Evil had taken on a life of its own.

She supposed that it served her right if her character had been sullied by her past actions; that she had changed and grown and made amends was of no consequence so far as history was concerned. Aurora had forgiven her, ill-deserved as that forgiveness was, and that was really all that Maleficent cared about.

“After that, then.” the Desert Fey insisted, his yellow eyes hypnotic and penetrating. _Predatory_. Maleficent found herself looking away unconsciously, apprehension sending tingles to her fingers and toes. He was trying to coerce her into providing a conclusive response with that strange anguine gaze, and the thought of it had her hackles rising.

“After that, we will see.”

Though she recognised that acquiescing to his request would solidify his interest in her and encourage him – which was what she wanted, was it not? – for some reason, Maleficent could not quite bring herself to give Borra a definitive answer. Perhaps it was merely that her mind was preoccupied with Aurora’s welfare – and ensuring that they returned to Ulstead with ample time to heal her from whatever dreadful illness had befallen her in their brief absence. It was not as though it was a _random_ human, to be fair – Aurora was her _daughter_ , adopted or conscripted or chosen or however one preferred to label their filial relationship; the child of her heart. It made perfect sense that she was fixated on her Beastie to the exclusion of any other considerations, whether before, during or after their return.

Yes, of course. That had to be it.

Clenching her jaw, Maleficent forced herself to focus on and consider Borra’s request, in spite of her natural instinct to ignore it entirely. Indeed, she would not have been so reluctant had all been well elsewhere in her life – she intended to mate him, after all. Her reluctance was _wholly_ a consequence of her other, more important, worries.

Certainly, she _could_ go to the island with him once Aurora was safe and healthy again – she should probably consider going soon anyway as the nominal leader of the Dark Fey, irrespective of Borra – but if she were to go _with_ him, in what capacity would she be going? As Maleficent, Guardian of the Moors and hereditary Phoenix of the Dark Fey? Or as Maleficent, prospective mate of Borra, leader of the Desert Fey?

Heavens, he was not thinking of introducing her to his family, was he? What a nauseating prospect, particularly after the fiasco in meeting Phillip’s when he and Aurora became betrothed. The dreadful dinner, during which she had fought valiantly to maintain her self-control in the face of Ingrith’s incessant needling and thinly-veiled accusations – and that _cat_ , that mangy beast that had been allowed to roam about shedding in their dinners before attacking Diaval (she could only assume it was because he still retained the scent of a bird, even in his man-shape) – had left a bitter taste in her mouth for extended families in general.

Though she wondered from time to time about her parents, she had no clear memory of either of them – just a vague recollection of warmth when surrounded by her mother’s wings, and the vibrant green of her father’s eyes, gazing into her own. She remembered nothing of them as individuals – they had died far too early in her life for such memories to form, and the stories of the fair folk who had known them were a poor substitute.

Diaval, a lone raven far from his family, had come to her without strings attached. Aside from a single moment one afternoon when Aurora was about two years of age, in which Diaval had cocked his head, squinted up at a young male raven circling the woodcutter’s cottage and quietly muttered, “I think that’s m’little brother Sciathánach…”, she had never even sighted one of his relatives, much less met one of them.

Maleficent had asked, from time to time, on seeing ravens in and around the Moors, if they were his kin. Diaval, the proud creature that he was, would invariably scoff and insist that he could not possibly be related to a raven with feathers that dull, or wings that weak, or eyes that dim. _His_ family were beautiful and brilliant, thank you very much, every last one of them. It was _hereditary_.

Then he would sigh softly and smile a sad little smile, before turning away.

She wondered, sometimes, if he missed them, and whether he ever imagined a clutch of breathtakingly beautiful raven fledglings with wings as sleek and shiny as his own.

Maleficent knew even less about Borra’s family than she did Diaval’s. Did his parents still live? Were there siblings? Nieces and nephews, as Udo had?

Would they dislike her on sight, as so many did?

It seemed heartless of her to quietly hope that Borra was an orphan like herself, so that there would be little disruption to the tiny found family that she had unwittingly assembled. For so long it had been just the three of them; herself, Diaval, and Aurora.

It could never have remained so, and Maleficent knew that. Aurora, young and beautiful and so full of life, could hardly have been expected to remain aloof and unattached, as Maleficent herself was. From the very beginning, it had been little more than a matter of time before the girl found the love of another, and in doing so, forced change upon their family. Though she had been forced to accept Phillip into their fold when Aurora chose to marry him, in a roundabout sense he had brought their family Wilfred, and so Maleficent found herself grudgingly forgiving him for disrupting their status quo. He was… acceptable. She supposed.

Further change, however, was alarming. She would even have gone as far as to say _unwelcome_ , though she recognised the irony of those feelings, considering that she was the one now consciously courting that change.

Borra, oblivious to Maleficent’s apprehensions, continued on as though she was as enamoured of his suggestion as he himself clearly was, “There is a waterfall in the centre of the island, where the Forest domain becomes the Jungle. It falls some thirty feet straight down, from the highest point within the island to the lowest. Behind the waterfall, there are caves. We’d have to kick out some of the young ones – they like to go there and… you know…” he leered at her suggestively, “But I would very much like to show them to you.” The lubricious smirk crept further across his face. “Perhaps you will feel _inspired_ by them.”

Maleficent narrowed her eyes at him. Was he being suggestive, or was she reading too much into his expressions? Damnable males and their apparent inability to merely _say_ what they meant.

“Borra, are you insinuating that you would like to engage in physical intercourse with me in these caves like a pair of hormone-addled adolescents?”

The grin now spread clear across his face. “You say that as though it’s a _bad_ thing.”

Maleficent felt a sudden stab of irritation at his cocksure attitude, which only served to confuse her further. She was supposed to be encouraging his interest, not instinctively snarling when he all but confessed to finding her physically appealing. She was _supposed_ to be telling him of her intention to take him as a mate, which she somehow had not yet managed to do in spite of having innumerable opportunities to do so.

She could not quite fathom why that was.

Unbidden, Diaval sprang into the tempest of her thoughts, his liquid eyes as dark and gleaming as polished river stones, holding her gaze with the intensity of his own.

 _“He doesn’t want you for_ you _– Maleficent._ Just _Maleficent.”_

Hissing softly at the intrusive memory of his words, she bade her imaginary raven away, away with his opinions and his wisdom and his _understanding_ , such that he saw into the soul and spoke her feelings aloud, forcing her to face them.

 _“All I’m sayin’ is that if you were in an enchanted sleep, Borra couldn’t wake you. He_ couldn’t _. And you know it.”_

Maleficent bit her lip, willing the traitorous moisture pooling in the corners of her eyes to leave her be, leave her to her decisions, to stop tormenting her with dreams and visions of her unconscious mind and unspoken feelings. That Diaval had been right – was right, was always right about these sorts of things – was irrelevant. She was going to mate Borra regardless. He did not love her, and she did not love him, and so he could not hurt her as Stefan once did. He was the safe choice, the only choice, really, for one as ill-deserving of true affection as she. She was going to take Borra as a mate, and they would go to those caves, and he would do as he wished with her – and she would bear it in whatever form it took. It was not about her, anyway – it was about the _next_ Phoenix, and ensuring that her line continued beyond her before her death ended it permanently. It was not about her.

_“Are you really happy to settle for that because you’re afraid of the alternative? Afraid of lettin’ yourself love and be loved?”_

_Enough!_ she cried in silence, squeezing her eyes closed. A single tear slid down her cheek, a trail of warmth in the chill of the rushing wind, before it was whisked away by her flight to fall to the earth like rain. Let the soil come to life with her tears – she had no use for them.

Her raven would cry tears enough for them both.

Diaval still gazed at her in her mind’s eye, his inhuman eyes glistening, dark and deep and hauntingly beautiful. She had seen the expression on his face countless times, but never before had she allowed herself to truly _see_ it, for if she had, she might have fled from him long ago.

Her truest, dearest friend. Her conscience. Her wings. Her…

_“You wouldn’t recognise true love if it were starin’ you in the face.”_

“Maleficent?” Borra asked, shattering her reverie.

She shook herself slightly and stared at him, stricken, biting back the unwilling quavering in her breath. The Desert Fey could hardly know her thoughts, and yet they betrayed her – betrayed the union that she intended to make with him, forced her into doubt and uncertainly by taking her silent reservations and amplifying them, using Diaval as a convenient medium.

It was her own fear that she was projecting onto him, and nothing more. A raven could love a Dark Fey, and Maleficent had no doubt that Diaval did, but he would never _fall_ in love with her. She was using him, using his presence in her life, as an excuse for her inaction.

Even now, trying to right herself and respond to Borra, the one that she was _supposed_ to want, Diaval’s image assailed her from within her own mind. Maleficent no longer saw the expanse of clouds above her, nor the land below, for her imagination had whisked her inexorably away from reality, to another place and time where nothing existed but herself and her beautiful raven man.

_His limpid eyes, bright with wonder and compelling in their beauty, raking over her as he stroked long fingers down her arms to take her hands in his own, raising them up and kissing them softly… reverently… as though she were something precious beyond comprehension; a goddess in a religion of his own creation instead of a frightened, damaged faerie. Silky hair, dark as night and peppered with raven feathers, falling over into his face as he bent to brush his beaky nose against her smaller one, as gentle as the touch of feathers against skin; her name a devotion, a promise, a whispered prayer upon his lips as he leaned into her…_

“We don’t have to do that if you would rather not.” Borra said apologetically, apparently mistaking her silence for discomfort. Good – Maleficent had no desire to share any part of her spiralling thoughts with him, if only because she could imagine his reaction if he learned the subject of those thoughts. A romantic interlude with Diaval? _Kissing_ him? Heavens above, she was an even sadder specimen that she had believed herself to be.

Anyway, he was a raven - he probably didn’t even know _how_ to kiss. Gods, where had that even _come_ from?

“No… no, it’s all right.” she replied, her voice feebler than she was accustomed to hearing. She mentally scolded herself, forcing her musings to anywhere but her raven.

“You seem upset. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I forget sometimes that you were not raised among us.” Borra muttered, apparently genuinely contrite. For all of his swagger, he did seem to have a reasonable grasp of when he had gone too far.

“It’s all right, Borra.” Maleficent sighed. His behaviour was not unexpected, both from the point of view of his personality and from the ongoing hint of a possible relationship between them. He was responding to the subtle cues that she must have been sending him since making her decision, and she owed it to him to encourage his aspirations, given that she intended to pursue him. He would be more comfortable with her proposal of mating if he felt that she reciprocated his desire.

He did not have to know that it was not genuine.

Ahead of them, little more than a tiny blip in the distance, glinting in the light of the setting sun against the deep blue backdrop of the vast southern sea, the faint shape of Ulstead Castle winked into existence.

Though her wings burned with exhaustion, and her cheeks with unexpected shame, the sight of their destination revitalised her and Maleficent propelled herself forward with even greater vigour. An hour, perhaps less if she really pushed herself, and she would be by Aurora’s side.

She had to do it, whether she was truly ready for such a step or not. She had to break this mental stalemate, state her intentions, and move on from the uncertainty. Having decided to take Borra as a mate, she could dither no longer, lest she talk herself out of it entirely on the basis of her preposterous imaginings.

She did not deserve love.

She did not deserve love, and she had no business fantasising about something impossible, implausible, ridiculous. Diaval would probably laugh at her for days on end if he ever learned what she had been thinking about, especially considering that she had been thinking about it with _him_. He was a _raven_. He was a raven, and she was… not. He would never find a Dark Fey appealing in that way, even if he happened to love her well enough to want to mate with her. 

Which he did not. He could not.

She had made her choice, and she had chosen logic over love. It was safer that way. _She_ was safer that way.

“Borra,” Maleficent began, inhaling a tremulous breath and trying to steady her nerves, “I have something which I would like to discuss with you.”

* * *

The land below them had changed form once again. The endless vista of cultivated land slowly melted into rolling hills with numerous copses dotted upon them, fragmented by verdant fens and lazily meandering creeks which wound back upon themselves into wide oxbows. The creeks weaved across the landscape like a grand lady’s hair ribbons in the wind, flowing ever onwards to finally spill into the great river – the very same river which made its way through the heavy tree cover of the Moors to the border with Ulstead.

Diaval, squinting in the dying light of the setting sun, watched the orange-tipped glistening of the river ripples below them as they marked the border between Perceforest and Ulstead.

“This is where I leave you.” Eira announced suddenly through the hush.

“You’re not coming to Ulstead with us?” Shrike asked.

The girl shook her head. “I left Rhew with Knotgrass and Thistlewit. It has already been more than a day – I am sure that they are well and truly sick of him by now, if they have even managed to keep a hold upon him.” She waved in farewell, peeling off and riding on pocket of cool air toward the lush tree line which heralded the border of the Moors.

“Rhew?” Vætki questioned. Diaval felt her shift on his back as she turned her attention to Udo.

“Her brother.” the Tundra Fey replied. “He has caused more mayhem in his five years than some cause in a lifetime. I can hardly blame her for being concerned, especially if her parents are still guarding the border instead of watching him.”

“Ah,” Vætki replied knowingly.

She of all people would understand the responsibility which came with a high needs younger sibling, Diaval supposed, although next to Rhew, Ekkert was comparatively benign. He had not had the pleasure of meeting Eira until she landed at their campsite that morning, fairly new to the Moors as she was, but young Rhew’s reputation had well and truly preceded him, despite having only lived among them for a short time. He was already known throughout the Moors for his antics, and Maleficent had muttered a variety of colourful variations on _that hooligan boy_ on more than one occasion. To that end, Diaval was not at all surprised by Eira’s insistence on returning to her brother as soon as possible. He had not known that they were siblings, but suddenly, the girl’s strength of character made all the more sense; she was strong because she had to be.

“Bye!” Ekkert hollered from Diaval’s back, waving frantically at Eira’s receding form and tipping himself slightly sideways. The unwilling cockatrice felt the lad start to slip at the same moment as he felt Vætki grab him and roughly pull him back upright.

He wished that he could speak, if only to tell them that it was not much further to go.

* * *

A lone figure stood on the upper-level balcony which overlooked the Moors, his eyes turned skyward as he scoured the dusky heavens in search of a miracle. Tiny against the backdrop of his stately surroundings, the tension with which he held himself was nevertheless as clear as day. His white-knuckled hands gripped the balustrade, elbows locked and shoulders hunching, stiff as though hewn from the castle stone itself.

Borra spotted him before Maleficent, distracted as she was, and called out to her, “Is that Prince Phillip?” 

She affirmed without speaking; turning toward the balcony with a graceful tilt of her wings, the baby Wilfred watching in awe from the safety of her arms at the advancing form of his father.

Maleficent found herself involuntarily mute, as though to allow herself the right of speech would somehow destroy the world entirely. Between at last being on the verge of reunification with Aurora, and, gods willing, being able to heal her from her illness, and the outcome of her conversation with Borra, she found herself with more words than could ever hope to be spoken, and no way to say any of them.

Borra had taken her proposal rather well, all things considered. He had been surprised if anything, as though he had not been expecting it, but had rapidly come to accept her suggestion with a jaunty grin and a lascivious look which left her feeling almost grimy.

She had expected to feel _something_. Everything was falling into place. Borra had accepted her plan and they would be mated shortly, once Aurora was well and Maleficent could focus her attention elsewhere. By this time next year, assuming that all went well, the line of the Phoenix would be well on the way to being secured for another generation.

She had expected to feel happy. Instead, she just felt… empty.

Maleficent studiously avoided thinking of Diaval, and the reaction which she expected from him. He would be furious. 

No, not furious. _Devastated_.

She could not think of her raven now. Not when Aurora was so close, and so in need of her undivided attention. She would speak with Diaval later on and try to repair the damage to their relationship as it happened, but it could wait.

Phillip, still gazing toward the stars which had gradually winked into existence above him, finally spied their approach. He started in disbelief, the elation evident in his cry, and he began to wave his arm frantically toward them.

“Maleficent! Oh thank God, you’re here, you made it!” he called to her, the relief in his tone almost palpable. Closer now, Maleficent could see the drawn worry lines between his brows and the dark shadows colouring the hollows beneath his swollen, red eyes. She wondered briefly if Phillip had slept at all since dispatching Eira to find her.

She landed effortlessly on the balcony before him, folding her wings up behind her and fixing her intense, otherworldly gaze upon his haggard face. To his credit, he did not take a step back from her as she had expected him to. Instead, he looked upon her with an awestruck expression as he might an angel from his strange religion; a miracle, tangible before him, the answer to his prayers.

“Where is my daughter?” she demanded without preamble, shoving Wilfred in the shocked arms of his father. The boy squealed in delight at being reunited, kicking his chunky little legs wildly and flailing in full-bodied excitement. He came within millimetres of smacking Phillip in the face with the wooden wyvern, still clenched tightly in his chubby fist, but the older prince did not so much as flinch.

Phillip had frozen in place, his mouth hanging open. He seemed unable to decide whether to dissolve into tears of joy at having his abducted son suddenly returned to him, safe and well, or tears of despair at the terrible fate looming ever closer to his wife. He gaped at Wilfred, eyes filling, then held him so tightly to his chest as though trying to absorb the baby into his very being.

“You found him,” the prince whispered incredulously, unable to tear his eyes from his boy, “You _found_ him!” Without warning, Phillip stepped toward Maleficent and threw his arms around her tightly, squeezing her to the point of pain as he sobbed unreservedly into her shoulder. “You found him, you found him…” he repeated in disbelief.

“Ahem.” Maleficent started, quite unable to work out the proper etiquette for extracting oneself from the bone-crushing embrace of a grateful prince.

“Come on, let her go. She is not done in saving your family yet, princeling.” Borra rumbled, firmly peeling Phillip from around Maleficent and steering the young man toward the balcony doors. She threw him a grateful look, though he missed it entirely. He was instead watching Phillip with a measure of sympathetic repugnance, as the prince was leaning numbly into his chest whilst very regally using his own fine linen shirtsleeve as a handkerchief.

Borra would see to Phillip. If nothing else, his brusque attitude would rouse the prince from his melancholy for long enough to find someone within the castle with the ability to feed his son, who was no doubt ravenous.

In the meantime, Maleficent had a far more important task to attend to.

She made her way through the balcony doors and into Aurora’s bedchamber. The atmosphere in the room was hushed, lit only by the softly flickering braziers on the far wall, such that a shadow was cast over the features of the prone figure in the bed.

The sight of Aurora sent tears springing unwanted into Maleficent’s eyes. Her daughter lay unmoving in the centre of her great bed, her once-rosy cheeks a wan shade of grey and her face as still as death. But for the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest, Maleficent would have assumed that Aurora had already passed from their world into the next. The odour of dying assaulted her nostrils; a sickly, almost sweet scent which was so typical of the end of a mortal life.

“She has an infection. A sickness in her blood. The doctors say that there is nothing more that can be done for her.” Phillip said, coming back from his moment of shock and extricating himself from Borra’s grasp. He moved toward her and ran his hand over his face, his distress visible from the pain in his expression through to the rigid stance he had adopted. Clutching Wilfred even closer, he buried his nose in the child’s soft curls and inhaled his delicate baby scent, seemingly trying to ground himself in his responsibility to his son. “You are the only hope she has left.”

Maleficent silently approached the bed and perched on the side of it beside her daughter, transfixed by the delicate beauty of Aurora’s face, even ravaged by illness as it was. The girl was far from consciousness, and likely had no inkling that she was there, but she could not help the compulsion to speak to her. If nothing else, she found it reassuring to be able to do so.

“I am here now, Beastie. Everything is going to be all right.”

Her voice sounded far stronger than she actually felt.

Maleficent laid her hand gently upon Aurora’s brow, flinching at the heat she found there – though despite the raging fever, her daughter’s forehead was as dry as old parchment, and felt about as fragile. Phillip had not been exaggerating about the seriousness of her illness. Maleficent felt a stab of irrational anger toward the boy; how dare he assess her daughter’s condition accurately, instead of engaging in hyperbole in the manner of most humans? Had he done so, perhaps Aurora would not be so far from hope as she was now.

Summoning her healing power from deep within her being, Maleficent concentrated on the hand which still lay on Aurora. Carefully, methodically, she pushed the magic from herself and into the dying girl before her, watching as her prone form slowly began to take on a radiant, ethereal glow.

Maleficent’s magic coursed through Aurora’s body, flowing through her veins and chasing down the evil which was slowly destroying her from within. She sent it in between the minute spaces in every tiny capillary, every tired, twitching muscle, every organ which was slowly succumbing to the toxins inside her. The Dark Fey pursued the infection right back to its source; the abscesses in Aurora’s breasts, now empty of milk and filled instead with festering purulence. It burst forth as her milk had once done, spilling from her body in a putrescent wave and staining her nightgown with streaks of yellow and red. Maleficent shuddered at the nauseating smell which accompanied it, fighting her rising gorge and swallowing hard. Unwilling to pull away before her daughter had been completely healed, she persevered, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to breathe through her mouth.

For several long, tense minutes, the glow enveloping Aurora becoming brighter and brighter still, until the Queen of the Moors had been entirely consumed in a dazzling fire of bright gold healing light. 

At last, satisfied that she had triumphed over the infection, Maleficent exhaled loudly and lifted her hand, watching the residual glow of her magic slowly fading, receding into Aurora’s body as the last of the poison in her blood fell to the might of the Phoenix.

“Aurora…” Phillip whispered from somewhere behind her, hope and fear fighting for dominance in his voice. He came around to the other side of the bed, sitting by his wife. He laid Wilfred beside his mother and reached to take her hand.

“She will not wake for some time.” Maleficent replied softly, waving her hand over Aurora’s nightgown to scourge the pungent stains away, “The infection which was poisoning her is no more, but she will need time to heal, to recover from this. Had I been delayed even an hour…” She looked up to meet the prince’s eyes, unable to speak the words aloud. He nodded, understanding completely.

“Thank you. I can never…” he shook his head, biting his lip and blinking rapidly, his words failing him. Even Maleficent, challenged as she was in comprehending all things emotional, could see that there were no words that existed in the tongues of man which could adequately express all that he felt. Instead, he curled up on the bed beside his wife and son, burying his face in Aurora’s shoulder and surrendering to his tears; relief consuming him and chasing away the shadowy spectre of grief, “Thank you…”

It would take far too much time, and certainly too much effort, to attempt to explain just what Aurora meant to her – the one soul in all of creation whom Maleficent could allow herself to love without reservation, without fear of being hurt. From her early childhood, the girl had unwittingly stolen a piece of the Dark Fey’s heart, and she had neither the power nor the will to demand it back again. Maleficent could not bear to think of a world without the sunshine of her presence. There was no world, not really, without her Beastie. Phillip, for all that he loved Aurora, would never truly understand the depth of the relationship between the sweet human girl and the acerbic, brooding Dark Fey. Saving her life was not a choice, so much as the only conceivable option.

Maleficent reached out her hand to Aurora’s, grasping the limp fingers with her own and squeezing gently, feeling the faint thrumming of the girl’s pulse beneath her fingertips – alive, and strengthening with each passing minute. 

Perhaps the simplest response would prove the easiest for Phillip to understand. He was, after all, a father now, with the particular insight that such a relationship now afforded. Maleficent allowed herself a barely perceptible smile, for the simplest response was also the most truthful.

“She is my daughter.”

* * *

They were so close.

Diaval skimmed below the surface of the clouds on leathery wings as he approached the town surrounding Ulstead Castle, his eyes locked upon the pointed spires on the towers ahead of him. Though he doubted that any of the villagers were even looking upward as in the starlit idle of night, especially as the moon had not yet risen, he was taking no chances. He had come too far to be shot out of the sky by a well-meaning peasant with a homemade crossbow now.

Shrike veered toward him, flying close, just above his head at his right. He could feel the rush of air from her wings with each beat. Diaval kept his eyes fixed forward, relying instead upon his peripheral vision. He could hardly wait to be rid of this damnable cockatrice shape so that he could look his companions in the eye again; even a _dog_ was a more appealing form at this point. He hoped that he would be able to find Maleficent quickly and without difficulty. He could hardly go to Aurora as he was – he would undoubtedly be killed by some overzealous castle guard if he tried. Just as concerningly, if he was still in a cockatrice shape by the following dawn, he would yet again have to find his way to the height at which the air became thin and the sound of a cock-crow did not carry, lest he fall victim to the idiosyncratic vulnerabilities of this magical form.

“Drop us in the castle grounds by the barracks.” Shrike muttered, “I’ll find Percival. He can help us to find somewhere for the humans to stay tonight, so that you can go and find Aurora.”

Diaval croaked his thanks, turning westward toward the sizeable soldiers’ barracks at the rear of the castle. Though nowhere near as luxuriant and pretentious as the castle itself, Ingrith’s influence could nevertheless be seen throughout it; her warlike nature was all too apparent in the proportions of the building and the materiel stored in the armouries surrounding it. A thousand soldiers could be housed within, and indeed had been, shortly before the Ulsteadan Queen’s fall from grace.

Now, the barracks housed far fewer soldiers. The majority had been conscripted from the surrounding countryside – second sons and landless bachelors, together with those who had little choice when the alternative was a miserable death – and most of these had chosen to return to the towns and villages from whence they came following the Wedding Day Battle almost a year ago.

Grunting, Diaval landed with a hefty thud and crouched down in the dirt to allow Shrike and Udo to untie the tangle of vines surrounded his belly. Ekkert slipped from his back almost immediately and started to run toward the castle; Vætki’s hand, as fast as lightning, snagged the back of the boy’s ragged tunic and pulled him back until he fell unceremoniously on his scrawny behind.

“Stay with me.” she told him, her tone a curious combination of adamance and fear. Udo positioned himself between Ekkert and the castle, watching the boy as a hawk might watch a particularly juicy mouse, but there was no question that Ekkert was thoroughly conditioned to following his sister’s directions. Though he pouted, he stood beside Vætki and made no further attempts to move away from her.

Shrike was already at the main door of the barracks. She flung the door open to poke her head inside with a carelessness that spoke of easy familiarity. “Percival!” she called, unconcerned for any soldiers who might have been asleep, dressing, or wielding any form of weapon. “Percival, are you there?”

“Shrike? Is that you?” came a muffled reply from inside the building. A moment and several loud thumping noises later, Percival rounded the door, beaming at his Fey paramour and sweeping her into a searing kiss. “Where have you been?” he murmured into her lips, his hands roaming about her rear and pulling her against him. He ground himself into her as though she had been away for months rather than days, oblivious to their audience.

She pushed him away teasingly, though she continued to eye him seductively from beneath her lashes as she replied, “Off battling a magical madman to rescue helpless human royalty. Now get your hands off my bottom, you lecherous manchild. I have a task for you.”

Percival pouted, but he removed his hands as instructed. “Later?”

“Oh, certainly. But the sooner you find these two somewhere to stay and something to eat, the sooner I will be available to blow your tiny human mind. Hop to it.”

He narrowed his eyes at Vætki and Ekkert, even as the latter waved cheerfully at him with a toothy grin on his face. “Who are they?”

“We rescued them along with Prince Wilfred. The Warlock was keeping them as servants. It’s a long story – I’ll fill you in later. In the meantime,” Shrike said, striding purposefully back to Diaval and pulling the last of the vines from his body, “You have somewhere to be, my friend.”

“What in the blazes of hell itself is _that_?” Percival hissed, having finally, belatedly, spotted the enormous black cockatrice amid his confusion and lust-filled distraction. In fairness to the man, Diaval supposed, he was an enormous black cockatrice in the _dark_ , and therefore managed to blend in rather better than, say, an enormous _white_ cockatrice might.

Still, it was such a typically _human_ trait to be so blinded by carnality as to miss something both massive and rather important.

Percival, his jaw clenched and all thought of coitus with Shrike forgotten, braced his stance and reached to his hip to unsheath his sword, glaring at Diaval - or, at least, Diaval assumed that he was glaring. It was hard to tell without looking directly at the man.

With a hiss of irritation, Shrike whirled around and stood before her lover with her hands on her hips and an irate expression on her face. Percival’s eyes widened, and his hand moved very slowly and deliberately away from the grip of the sword as Shrike began to berate him.

“Don’t be rude, it’s not his fault he looks monstrous. This is just Diaval – you know, _Maleficent’s_ Diaval, the raven man. She wasn’t exactly thinking when she changed him last, but she will change him back again once she has healed your princess queen or whatever lofty human title Aurora wears, so no stabbing him.” She turned back around to the rather agitated black cockatrice and continued, “Off you go, Diaval. We will settle these two and come and find you later. Find Aurora, find Maleficent, and don’t even think of coming back until all is well again.”

Though Shrike’s tone had left no room for argument in any case, Diaval needed no further encouragement to leave the unusual travelling party behind. With a crow of farewell to the strange assembly of humans and Dark Fey surrounding him, Diaval gave a might beat of his wings and leapt back into the air, gaining height rapidly and wheeling around to the front of the castle, to Aurora’s grand balcony overlooking the Moors.

The doors which led to out to the balcony had been left open, though carelessly so, as though the last person to use them had been in such haste as to leave them ajar. Gods, was his little one so far gone as that? Diaval’s heart began to pound in dread; his need to know the fate of his fledgling drawing him onward, even as fear had his wings flying as though drowning in thick birch sap. He could feel the familiar tingle of his Mistress’ magic, stronger now with their renewed proximity, and he made for her instinctively; a helpless moth to her alluring flame.

Landing on the balcony, he skittered on uncertain cockatrice claws, flailing and hissing before finally coming to a stop just by the doorway. Mindful of the potential for accidental killing, he dropped his gaze to a point some three feet in front of him and examined the interior of the room through the corners of his eyes. As he did, he was drawn to the graceful whirl of the first two fingers of his Mistress’ left hand, a prelude as always to her magic enveloping him, recreating him in unimaginable ways.

He felt himself changing, shrinking back from the mighty form of the cockatrice to a more familiar shape – more familiar to him now that the form he had worn on the day of his birth. At last, once again seeing the world through adroit human eyes, he looked up properly at the scene before him.

Maleficent sat on the edge of the large bed in the centre of the room, her hand clasped around Aurora’s. Though aware of his presence, she had not turned, her slender back and elegant wings facing the balcony doors. Diaval’s heart leapt stubbornly into his throat; though her shoulders were, as always, arrow-straight, her wings drooped in a way which alarmed him. They hung from her back as though they weighed more than the world itself, her long feathers dragging beside her in the dust of the unswept floor.

And his fledgling, his darling Aurora, laying there pale and still in the bed – as still as she had been as they had grieved for her in her death sleep. Diaval bit back a surge of nausea, refusing to believe that Maleficent had been too late. It was not possible. It could not be possible to have saved her son, only to have her pass before they had the chance to reunite them.

“Mistress?” he rasped at last, his fear colouring his voice such that he almost did not recognise it. As he spoke, she shifted, pulling her wings up closer to her back and sighing audibly.

“She will live.”

His breath hitched, emerging as a strangled sort of sob, and he fought the sudden weakness in his knees as he crossed the threshold into the room.

“You made it in time.” he whispered. His throat seemed to have forgotten how to make sounds properly, his voice emerging with a harsher, more ravenlike huskiness than usual.

Maleficent’s wings twitched unconsciously – a gesture which Diaval recognised as a vestige of extreme distress. “Barely, but it hardly matters. I was able to heal her. She will live.”

“And Wilfred?”

“With his father. He was hungry. Borra insisted upon forcibly accompanying Phillip to find a wet nurse when the crying became too much for him.” she muttered.

Diaval made his way across the room to stand beside Maleficent, his eyes roving over Aurora’s still form. Closer now, he could see her breathing – a sight more welcome than any other that he had known in his life – but her pallor and the unnatural translucency of her complexion were all the more apparent in proximity. He could trace the path of the individual veins, tiny rivers sketched indelibly on a map by a steady hand, standing out with fragile clarity against the blanched skin of her closed eyelids. Her lips were cracked from dehydration, flaking away in places and smeared with the crusted, blackish remains of dried blood.

“She still looks so ill.” he murmured, more to himself than Maleficent, though she answered him nonetheless.

“She was hours from death, Diaval.”

His breath stilled momentarily, icy fingers squeezing around his heart. “Hours?” he whispered.

“Perhaps not even that long.” she replied, her voice barely audible. She bit her lower lip hard; it must have hurt, but she did not flinch. “I almost did not make it in time.”

There was no response that Diaval could give that was even close to adequate, particularly as her body language told him that her words, if anything, understated the truth of the situation. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought of what she must have seen before her mere hours earlier, and how she must have felt at seeing their daughter so unwell, so helpless.

So close to leaving them.

He fell wordlessly to his knees beside the bed and reached across to twine his fingers into Aurora and Maleficent’s interlaced ones, squeezing tightly, feeling the warmth which had returned to his dear fledgling’s hands and the strong, regular pulsing of her heartbeat at her wrist.

Overcome, he stifled the sobs which threatened to overtake him. He could not, however, hold back the tears which spilled from beneath his dark lashes to meander down the pale scars upon his cheeks, nor could he help the shuddering of his shoulders with each shaking breath. Without thinking, he laid his head down on his Mistress’ lap, aching for the comfort of her touch, and buried his face in her dress.

He felt her hand pause for the briefest of moments as she placed it gently upon his head. Lingering there, Diaval stilled beneath the warmth of her palm, a bird to his core at the mercy of one who could give him both pleasure and pain at her whim. He would not move unless she willed it; even his tears, still flowing freely from his eyes, fell silently.

As carefully as she might a wild creature, untamed by any hand, she began gently stroking Diaval’s feathered hair, her fingers gliding rhythmically through his thick locks, as much to soothe herself as he. She knew just how to touch him, her hand steady and kind, unwavering, reminding him always that she was his protector, his saviour, that she would never cast him aside. He was hers.

Though intended to comfort, Diaval found that it had quite the opposite effect, wrenching sobs from within him in spite of himself. The velvet warmth of Maleficent’s wings against his back proved his undoing, surrounding and cradling him in a cocoon of feathers, and Diaval found what little was left of his composure crumble under the weight of his relief. Aurora was going to live, Wilfred was safe and back with his family, everything was once again, at last and _finally_ , right with the world.

No longer able to be contained, he gave himself over to his instincts, burrowing into Maleficent like the safest nest in a storm and gripping their hands together with their daughter’s, weaving their fingers into a living knot. His tears soaked her skirts as she stroked his hair, steadily, constantly, reassuring and calming him as only she knew how; keeping him grounded as he held tightly to the daughter his heart had chosen, and the one his soul called _mate_.


	22. Chapter 22

Green.

Green and yellow. Smudges of colour, starkly contrasted against the foggy blur before her, slowly coming together into two bright circles which gleamed like precious jewels in the firelight.

 _Eyes_.

Her _mother’s_ eyes.

Aurora blinked hard, trying to clear the haze from her vision and gather her bearings. Her head was pounding as though it had been crushed beneath a boulder.

“It’s all right.” she heard her mother say softly through the persistent dimness, “Everything is all right now, Beastie.”

“Mother?” Aurora croaked weakly. She reached out, grasping for Maleficent’s hand. Strong, slender fingers closed around hers and squeezed, holding on.

“I’m here, Aurora. We’re all here.” she replied.

Black eyes now, appearing beside Maleficent’s and gazing upon her, shining in that peculiarly inhuman way that they did. A cheeky, crooked smile, coming into focus along with the rest of her surroundings.

She smiled back, though the effort involved in doing so alarmed her. “Diaval.”

“The one and only. How are you feelin’?” the raven man asked tenderly. He reached over to stroke a lock of hair from her brow. The love contained within such a simple gesture warmed her to her core – love given freely, with nothing expected in return. He was a rare diamond in a mountain of rubble, her pretty bird.

Aurora swallowed, noting the abrasive dryness of her throat. “I’m thirsty.”

Diaval moved away for a moment, returning with a flagon of water and muttering to himself about the ridiculousness of the fireplace being alight in the middle of the day in the summertime. He sat beside her on the bed and slid an arm behind her, helping her to sit as Maleficent reached around her to prop pillows against her back. “Not too much, now. You don’t want to go makin’ yourself ill with it. Little sips.”

Aurora closed her eyes, grateful for the cool water sliding down her throat and the firm, reassuring pressure of Diaval’s arm around her. They had come back to her. She had needed her mother, needed her father, and they had come to her. Even though they had been miles and miles away, they had come…

Aurora sat up suddenly, blacking out momentarily at the abrupt shift in her posture.

“Whoa whoa whoa there, not so fast!” Diaval scolded her, trying to draw her back against her pillows, “You shouldn’t be sittin’ up like that yet. Mistress, help me out here.”

“Wilfred!” Aurora replied wildly, though she allowed herself to be coaxed back to a more recumbent position by Maleficent’s authoritative hands, “Where is Wilfred? You’re _here_! You were looking for him, but you’re here, _where is he_? Where is my baby?!”

“It’s all right, Aurora.” came another voice from somewhere beyond the stately silk bed hangings. Phillip? Phillip was here?

Her husband emerged from where he had been standing over by the window, looking out onto the tempestuous light of the day and out of her immediate sight. His adoring smile was brighter than the summer sun at noon. Cradled in his arms, warm and safe as though he had never been taken from them, lay…

“ _Wilfred_! You found him! You brought him back!”

Phillip wasted no time; he crossed the short distance to her side and gave her their son. She held out her arms, ignoring the twinge of pain which came with the movement, her lower lip trembling as she fought the instinct to cry in utter joy at her son returned to her. He sat beside her and pressed his lips into the golden disarray of her hair, the look on his face one of a man who knows no better contentment in life than his experience of that very moment.

“Where? How?” Aurora insisted.

“Rest, Aurora. It’s a bit of a long story.” Diaval replied.

“Tell me.” she demanded, though the authority in her voice disappeared somewhat into the fragility of her tone.

Diaval exchanged a curt look with Maleficent, raising his eyebrows; a question, perhaps more than a question, passing between them.

“Perhaps the abridged version.” Maleficent finally acceded. She tilted her chin toward Diaval, indicating that he was welcome to relate the tale if he chose. He flashed her a lopsided grin and settled himself down contentedly on the bed beside his fledgling, puffing up her pillows and ensuring that she was comfortable before he began. There was something in his movements which lent Aurora a moment of nostalgia for the years of his storytelling in the Moors, before the curse, before she became the Queen, when life was simple and filled with seemingly endless joy.

She missed it, sometimes, for all that she loved her husband and son – the son she now held tightly to her, lest he disappear from her again. Everything was so much more straightforward then, when she was young, and all that she had to concern herself with was dodging mud from the wallerbogs.

Diaval, with all of the pageantry and gravitas of a professional bard, and without bothering with preamble or revisiting the facts already known to her, began. “We followed the clue of Prince Fritjof’s crest to Konungr Heima. We didn’t know much else, mind, but it seemed as good a place as any to start, bein’ the last place that the prince was seen. The place is run by an Arbiter now; the royal family no longer exists to them. The Arbiter is a bloated, lazy alcoholic who had nothin’ to do with anythin’ except findin’ the bottom of a wine cask, so Mistress and I-”

“And Borra.”

“Yes, and _Borra_.” Diaval glared, “We went deep into the northern Moors. _Creepy_ place, and I nearly got eaten at one point. Found out what happened to your uncle-in-law after all that, though, and found more information which sent us far to the north.”

Phillip, sitting beside Aurora on the bed, pricked up. “What happened to Uncle Fritjof?”

“He was taken prisoner by an Elf named Alberich, who styled himself the _Erlkönig_ , convinced a masochistic pixie to perform a medical procedure which involved amputating the Erlkönig’s limbs and most of his brain before sewing what little remained of the creature onto his very human back in order to steal his magic, after which he escaped to a castle in the north of Nyrsta Vígi called Járnahöll. May we continue?” Maleficent replied curtly.

Phillip blinked several times in rapid succession. “What?”

Maleficent ignored him, instead picking up Diaval’s story. “We knew none of this at the time. All we knew was that Prince Fritjof had been the prisoner of a powerful being, but had escaped some years prior to our arrival. We theorised that the Erlkönig was behind the kidnapping at that point – the Arbiter had spoken of a Warlock, and the Erlkönig appeared to be the most likely individual. We were wrong on that count, as it turned out, but Lickspittle was less than forthcoming.”

“Lickspittle? Mother’s servant?” Phillip frowned.

“The very same.” Diaval replied. “I wonder if he ended up goin’ back to the Moors like you told him to, Mistress?”

She raised an eyebrow devilishly. “We shall find out soon enough; I dispatched Borra to find him before you arrived, once he had escorted Phillip to find a wet nurse for Wilfred. If Lickspittle is anywhere within the known Moors, then Borra will locate him and bring him to Ulstead. His part in this must not go unnoticed; after all, none of this would have occurred if not for his experiments. He should be held accountable.”

“I’ll be sure to listen out for the screamin’.” Diaval smirked.

Maleficent mimicked his expression, adding the merest flick of an eyebrow as she replied, “Hmm. I’m sure that Borra will deliver him here _mostly_ unharmed. Now, where was I?”

“We were goin’ to Járnahöll.”

“Ah, yes. Considering your ill-health, Beastie, I will spare you the details for now-”

“It involved some astoundin’ and _remarkable_ bravery from yours truly.” Diaval interjected with a jaunty grin, waggling his eyebrows at Aurora. She giggled weakly.

“It did indeed,” Maleficent conceded, “And perhaps when Aurora is stronger, you may enlighten her. Suffice it to say in the meantime, we were able to extract Wilfred from the castle, along with the Warlock’s two servants.”

“His servants?”

“Hmm…” Diaval’s grin rapidly metamorphosed into a grimace. Aurora narrowed her eyes at him.

“What’s ‘hmm’?”

He hesitated before answering, whining a little in his throat as though it pained him to reveal anything further. “The Warlock’s servants – you’ve met them. Here, in Ulstead. They were at the christenin'-”

Aurora’s eyes widened as her mind made the connection. “The boy with the horse! And his sister!”

“Indeed.” Maleficent confirmed, “It was they who orchestrated Wilfred’s kidnapping on the command of the Warlock.”

It was all that Aurora could do to force herself to remain reclined; a snarl ripped from between her lips in a manner decidedly reminiscent of her mother in the throes of one of her rages. Those wretched creatures had spoken to her as though nothing was amiss at all before stealing her son away from her in the dead of night. How could Maleficent and Diaval see fit to bring them back to Ulstead, knowing their guilt?

Maleficent held up a hand to settle Aurora. “Please, Beastie, hear what we have to say first.”

“That’s somethin’, comin’ from the Mistress of All Blast-First-Ask-Questions-Later.” Diaval huffed incredulously.

“Would you like to be a tapeworm for the remainder of the evening?” Maleficent hissed.

Diaval had no chance to respond to her threat before Phillip interjected, “What could possibly have possessed you to bring them back here? What if they try to take Wilfred again?” The expression on his face was about as threatening as it had ever been – that was to say, not especially – but his tone positively bled fury.

“We couldn’t leave them there. They were only doin’ what they were ordered to do, and he would’ve have killed them otherwise.” Diaval said softly, “The boy, Ekkert, is about as simple as they come, but the Warlock made him that way. Tortured him until he lost his mind, or it was so damaged that there was no comin’ back from it. Vætki, his sister… well, it was even worse for her.”

Maleficent picked up Diaval’s explanation as the raven man closed his eyes at the memory of what he had seen in the castle, “Vætki was subject to repeated violence at the hands of the Warlock, Aurora. She bore three children as a result, two of whom were murdered by their sire at birth. The third succumbed to illness just a few short weeks ago, just before Wilfred’s christening.”

“I buried her,” Diaval rasped in a voice which had aged a lifetime in a matter of minutes, “Under the castle. They hadn’t had a chance yet, Vætki and Ekkert, and the poor wee thing was just lyin’ there in a blanket…” he trailed off, staring into nothingness with wide, haunted eyes. Maleficent reached over to take his hand, looking into his eyes and holding them with her own to bring him back from the darkness into which he threatened to descend.

“Diaval made a choice to bring Vætki and Ekkert with him when he brought Wilfred out of Járnahöll.” she stated softly, never once breaking eye contact with the raven man, “I trust his judgement implicitly. The human siblings are just as much the victims of the Warlock as you and Wilfred and Phillip are, Beastie. Perhaps even more so, for they have had their lives stolen from them, never to be returned to the way they were before.”

“Maleficent,” Phillip asked cautiously, though the expressionless mask on his face was evidence enough of his suspicions, “Tell me. Tell me truthfully. The Warlock…” he licked his lips nervously, his eyes flicking up to meet the Dark Fey’s, “Is he Prince Fritjof? Is he my uncle?”

Maleficent inclined her head apologetically. “He was. He is no more.”

Phillip ran a hand over his face, trying to process all that he had been told. Aurora leaned against him and pressed a kiss against his cheek, lending him her strength, such that it was. It could not have been easy for Phillip to learn that his long-lost uncle had not only survived when assumed dead for decades, but had proven to be so evil as to abduct his own great-nephew. Considering that Ingrith had also been quite the evildoer in the recent past, one had to question if it ran in the family. Poor Phillip was undoubtedly having a minor identity crisis.

She turned her head slightly, her lips brushing against her husband’s ear, and whispered, “You’re just like your father, you know. Kind. Caring. _Good_. There’s nothing of either of them in you.”

“She’s right, you know,” Diaval added with a wry smile, “And you’d best believe it, because Mistress here would have turned you into livestock before she’d have let you marry Aurora if it wasn’t.”

Phillip made a vague noise of acknowledgement but said nothing. His expression was a strange combination of shock and devastation; Aurora suspected that he was trying to figure out a way to gently break the news of having married into a family of psychopaths to his father.

“You killed him?” Aurora asked Maleficent; confirming, not accusing. She knew her mother far too well to believe that she would have left the Warlock unharmed, considering the weight of his sins against her family, and with the likes of Borra in tow, it was all but certain that they had dispatched their enemy with both thoroughness and alacrity.

Diaval shrugged and pulled a face, “Well, your mother dropped a castle on him, so…”

“A castle?” Aurora exclaimed, ignoring the sudden dizziness which accompanied her outburst, “An actual castle?”

“Quite a large castle.” Maleficent commented, “Járnahöll, in fact. A mountain stronghold. It is very unlikely that he survived such a thing. What?” she snapped at Diaval’s doubtful frown.

He grimaced. “You didn’t check, though, did you?”

Maleficent fixed him with a withering glare. “As it would have involved shifting several thousand tons of rubble – no, I did not. The likelihood of survival was minimal, and we had to return to the rendezvous site to ensure that you, my judgemental bird, had in fact survived yourself.”

“We were well into the tunnel by then.”

“I had no way of knowing that. For all I knew, you had been crushed beneath the falling stones along with the Warlock. Fortunately, that was not true, but your safety, and that of Prince Wilfred, was my primary concern. Borra, Shrike, Udo and I agreed that the chance of the Warlock surviving was minuscule.”

Had Aurora not known her mother as well as she did, she might have missed the brief flicker of concern which chanced upon her face, or instead assumed it to be some sort of fleeting intestinal discomfort had she happened to notice it. Maleficent believed the Warlock dead, but not having sighted his body, there was always the possibility, however remote, that he had survived.

“Lickspittle’ll be able to tell us more once Borra finds him – what happened to him in the Moors, and after, how and when he became the Warlock.” Diaval piped up, redirecting the subject before it could cause any issues between them, “Although, Mistress, do you still have the journal?”

“Journal?” Aurora frowned.

“Lickspittle’s journal.” Maleficent replied. “It should still be in my satchel – I dropped it somewhere by the window.”

“It’s not a nice read, though, I’ll tell you that much.” Diaval shuddered, “Dismemberin’s and gangrene and-”

He trailed off, frowning and cocking his head to the side. He moved it jerkily as he might in his bird form, trying to gauge the nature and location of a sound which had captured his attention. Finally, the frown melted into his characteristic crooked grin and he tilted his chin toward the windows at the blustery grey sky.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear… haulin’ a wingless pixie.” he quipped. “Have a look at that, would you?”

Three pairs of eyes turned to the window, where a dark speck could be seen against the leaden clouds and the sound of petrified screaming had become barely audible over the rush of the wind. The speck grew larger by the second, revealing itself to have a pair of strong, broad wings which laboured to beat under the weight of another, smaller shape; that shape dangled, screaming, beneath.

“Oh,” Maleficent commented nonchalantly. “That was quick.”

Phillip stood and moved over to the window. “Is he carrying that poor pixie by his leg?”

The Dark Fey narrowed her eyes at him. “That ‘poor pixie’ is a sadistic piece of work. I have no sympathy for him whatsoever.”

“Still, that can’t be comfortable.” Phillip countered.

“Perhaps, then, you should see to his welfare once they arrive.” Maleficent suggested. “Would you be so kind as to meet them at the main doors and ensure that your guards are present in sufficient numbers to take Lickspittle into custody,” she paused before belatedly adding, “Please.”

Phillip opened his mouth as though to argue with her, but then evidently thought better of it and shut it again. He nodded his acknowledgement and crossed back to Aurora, kissing her gently on the cheek. 

“I will be back soon.” he promised. Tickling Wilfred’s little feet, he bent and brushed his lips against the boy’s flaxen head as well. “Be good for your mama, young man.”

With that, he nodded to both Maleficent and Diaval and made his way out of the bedchamber.

“What do you expect to learn from Lickspittle?” Aurora asked, closing her eyes for a moment. It alarmed her as to how weak she felt, especially considering that she had been in perfect health just a week earlier.

“Whatever we can. Unfortunately, we had precious little time for questioning in the northern Moors, and he was rather more circumspect in his responses than we would have preferred. The contents of his journal have proven perversely enlightening, but there may be more which he can tell us, if only for the sake of completeness.”

“It also gives us a fair idea of what he might try in the future.” Diaval added, careworn foresight colouring his tone. He was far too old a bird to assume that other creatures would adhere to the same stringent moral code as he.

“Yes, that too.” Maleficent responded darkly, “If he was willing to engage in the sorts of experiments that are referenced in his journal, then he may be persuaded to repeat them. We cannot allow that.”

Diaval flicked an eyebrow skyward. “There’s a dungeon downstairs goin’ wantin’.” he muttered dryly.

“And it may see use again, should the need arise.” Maleficent replied, her own eyebrow mimicking the movement of his.

Aurora closed her eyes wearily, pulling Wilfred closer to her. The baby had fallen asleep, comforted by the warmth and scent of his mother. “Warlocks. Long lost family. Mentally unstable pixies. Is there anything that you haven’t seen these past days?”

“It wasn’t all serious.” Diaval replied, “We had some laughs, here and there. Shrike is a party on wings, after all, so it was always goin’ to be a bit of fun when it could be. Mistress turned the humans into rabbits at one point and scared the bejesus out of Borra – that was hysterical. A big burly Desert Fey turnin’ to aspic over a couple of fluffy little bunnies.” He grinned at Aurora, who offered a thin smile in return.

Maleficent had stiffened, though her face was an expressionless mask. She had drawn her wings up closely behind her at the mention of Borra, the two horns which curved inward from the wing joints almost touching the ones that arched up and out from her head.

“Mother?” Aurora queried, suddenly concerned, “What is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Beastie.” she replied measuredly, her lips curling into an ersatz sort of smile, “Although having properly brought Borra into the conversation, there is something which I ought to tell you.”

Diaval let out a bark of laughter at that, though his mirth did not quite make it as far as his eyes. “Is this about your idea? Aurora won’t think any more highly of it than I did, you know.” He turned to Aurora and muttered, “So Mistress has been overthinkin’ her life, as usual, and came up with the brilliant idea that _Borra_ would make her an ideal mate. Can you believe such a thing?” He forced another laugh.

If Maleficent was upset at Diaval for taking it upon himself to tell Aurora, there was no sign of it in her expression. If anything, she appeared wistful, weighed down beneath the misery of the ages, as though she anticipated the anguish that her response would cause and regretted it in every way imaginable. Still, she looked the raven man square in the eye, waiting until the levity drained from his face and left nothing but apprehension, before she replied, “It is no longer merely an idea, Diaval, but a plan set in motion.”

His eyes were lambent gemstones in the flickering firelight, enormous and tragic, as he stared at her for a long, harrowing moment. Comprehension – bewildered agony – dawned within them, protracted and exquisite, as though time itself had ceased to flow from the shock. His pale, beautiful face fell, beyond expression. He opened his mouth slightly, but closed it again before a sound could emerge.

Overcome, unable to respond, his gaze dropped to his hands, now clasped together in quiet desperation. He froze in place as though carved from solid ice, motionless but for the barely perceptible tremble of his lower lip. A cornered bird, within sight and smell of a predator, expending every available iota of energy to avoid being seen.

“Diaval?” Aurora whispered, feeling his agony emanating from him like the waves which crashed endlessly into the Ulsteadan cliffs; constant, unceasing, unable to be abated by even the most powerful of beings.

The raven man inhaled sharply and, blinking rapidly, forced himself back from the abyss of sorrow into which he spiralled. Ever stalwart, he forced a tight smile, though Aurora noted that he was fastidiously avoiding making eye contact with Maleficent even as he impelled himself to respond to her.

“Is that so, then? Uh, well. I suppose you did say you were goin’ to. I, uh…” he rose from Aurora’s bedside, backing away from Maleficent as he might a ferocious beast; something to be avoided, lest it eat him alive. But no – Aurora had known Diaval for too long to misinterpret his behaviour as dread. His darting eyes, looking about the room but seeing nothing, noticing nothing but the inside of his own mind. The tremor in his voice, betraying the depth of his feelings, the unspoken truths which would remain so, whether it hurt him or not. The bloodlessness of his lips, drawn into nothingness with anxiety – now babbling, making incoherent excuses as he made his way to the door of the bedchamber; to safety, though safety no longer existed in his world.

“Diaval, please come back.” she entreated, holding out her arms to him; an anchor, or at the least the offer of one. He shook his head emphatically and looked at her with wildness in his eyes. _Pain_.

“I’d best be off… leave you two… you’ll be wantin’ to talk about this, I’m sure. I’d just be in the way. I’m goin’ to go…” he trailed off, skittering to the imposing doors, and moved like a whisper across the threshold and out of sight.

No sooner had Diaval’s shadow disappeared into the muted light of the hallway did Aurora, weakened though she was, turn on her godmother in brilliant fury.

“How could you _do_ that to him?” she hissed. Her eyes were wide in horror – not just for Diaval’s sake, but because for the first time in her life, she wondered if she truly knew the woman sitting before her at all.

“Beastie?”

Aurora’s eyes were already filling with empathetic tears. “How could you hurt him like that? Mating _Borra_? What in the name of heaven itself are you _thinking_ , Mother?”

Maleficent clenched her jaw, launching into what was clearly a calculated and rehearsed response. “He does not love me, and I do not love him. We are socially compatible, and that is entirely sufficient for my purposes.”

Aurora was horrified. “You don’t love him, but you plan to mate him – what? In spite of that? _Because_ of it?” Her mother had lost her mind. There was no other possible explanation. Why else would she mate a man that she did not love?

Maleficent sighed, gazing sadly at Aurora. “I have said it before, though you refuse to believe me. Love doesn’t always end well. If we do not love each other, and acknowledge that, then the danger is lessened.”

“Danger? Of what? Being happy?” Yes, it was all but certain – Maleficent was clearly suffering from an addling of the mind. She was making no sense at all, even in Maleficent terms.

Her expression was one of determined bewilderment, as though she could not comprehend why Aurora did not understand what she considered perfectly logical reasoning. “Being _hurt_. I loved a man once, and he almost destroyed me. I will not allow that to happen again.”

Aurora gave her mother a reproachful, frustrated sort of look, as though she expected better from her and had been terribly disappointed. “Do you honestly believe that Diaval would hurt even a single hair on your head?”

“Diaval? No, of course not. He would never do such a thing.” Maleficent replied.

“Then why is he not good enough?” Aurora insisted, poking a finger in Maleficent’s direction and delighting in the way that the Dark Fey instinctively flinched. Good – perhaps that meant that she would listen to reason.

“Not good enough? What? Perhaps you should rest, Beastie. You are not making any sense.” her mother said, unconvincingly feigning confusion.

Aurora knew her better than to fall for such a thing.

Well, if Maleficent wanted to play that game, Aurora was more than willing to give her a piece of her mind. Several pieces, should it become necessary to do so. The happiness of her family was at stake; even her mother’s ire was a small price to pay. She gritted her teeth and willed herself to remain conscious and lucid for the greater good.

“Don’t you dare pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about, Mother. Diaval loves you. I’ve never _seen_ anyone love another as he loves you – no, not even me and Phillip! It’s like one of those epic romantic tales of eternal devotion of old. Do you care so little for him that you would hurt him like this? Destroy him so utterly?”

“Aurora…”

“No, don’t ‘Aurora’ me. Why isn’t Diaval good enough for you? If you don’t care one way or another if you love the one you mate, then why not him? The one who has stood by you through the best and worst of times these two and a half decades? The one who cares not a jot for his own happiness, so long as you are happy? He would kill for you, Mother. He would _die_ for you. Why would you choose Borra over Diaval? You’ve all but told him that someone whom you have known for less than a year is a better choice than he – someone that you have known and trusted, someone who has held steadfast to your side and cared for you in every conceivable way, for twenty three years. I understand that you don’t want to be hurt, but in trying to protect yourself, you’ve managed to wound him about as deeply as you possibly could.”

She was gasping, the edges of her vision beginning to disappear into a dark haze and her grip on her sleeping child slackening, but still Aurora continued as a sudden realisation struck her.

“Or… no. You didn’t choose Borra because Borra is somehow a better choice, did you? You chose him precisely because he is _not_ Diaval. He doesn’t love you, as Diaval does. But it’s not just that, is it?” Aurora slowly pushed herself up, though it took enormous effort to do so, and looked her mother directly in the eyes. Through the superficial expression of barely-tempered rage, she could read another, deeper, more raw emotion.

Fear.

“You do love him, don’t you?” she asked in a whisper, “That’s why you could not bear to consider him.”

Maleficent lowered her gaze to examine her own fingers, knotted white-knuckled and straining around themselves. She did not look up, even when Aurora pressed.

“Why?”

“Love only leads to pain, Beastie.” Maleficent murmured, almost inaudibly.

How could she still believe that? After all these years spent together, most of them in the quasi-filial relationship in which each claimed the other as family? After innumerable examples of love leading not to pain, but to joy and delight and yet _more_ love? After decades of stalwart devotion, care and friendship from Diaval? How could she still believe such a blatant untruth – that all that waited for her down the path of love was anguish?

Though it set her nerves on edge to do so, Aurora had to ask, if only to affirm that which she had always presumed to be true. “Do you love me?”

“Of course.” Maleficent looked up in alarm. Her expression spoke more than her words, though, revealing that the mere suggestion that she did not love Aurora with all of her heart was as terrible as it was untrue. A good sign, and one that Aurora latched onto with fervour as she continued.

“Have I caused you pain?”

Maleficent sighed, closing her eyes. “Never intentionally. Accidentally, sometimes. Yesterday, when I did not know if you would live or die. Then, yes, you caused me pain.”

A dagger, the truth concealed with great swathes of fear, was poised above the Dark Fey’s breastbone, and now her daughter sought to plunge it in to the hilt. “Do you regret loving me, Mother?”

“ _Never_.” The answer was emphatic, unquestionable. Maleficent’s love had woken her from an enchanted sleep when no other could. There was never any doubt.

Though it pained her to be the cause of her mother’s anguish, there was no other way that Aurora could see. If she said nothing, then it would only cause deeper sorrow in years to come. To hurt her now would save her from far greater pain.

She drove the dagger home.

“Then tell me – how am I so different from Diaval? He has never intentionally caused you pain. He would never hurt you.” she shifted, taking her mother’s hands in her own, “If he were the one who lay ill, hours from death, would you fly as you did for me to save him? Could you bear to live in a world without him?”

Maleficent did not respond. Her eyes were still closed, her beautiful features sculpted as though by a divine hand into a rictus of anguish, all the worse for having been her own doing. She caught her lower lip between her fangs, biting down until her scarlet lips began to well up with a darker red, even as gold flicked about the injury to heal it almost immediately.

“Mother?”

Maleficent inhaled sharply, raising her eyes to meet Aurora’s once again. Arresting and entrancing, as Dark Fey eyes invariably were, they now bore a shadow of something darker, an inner struggle which spilled out from the fathoms of her deepest being and crept indefatigably toward the light; unwilling, unable, obstinately _refusing_ to be ignored any longer.

An exhalation; a sharp breath which held within in a thousand words, begging to be freed. She looked about her as though seeing the world for the first time in all its wonderful, terribly glory.

Aurora, seizing the moment, repeated her question. “Could you stand it, Mother? A world without Diaval in it?”

The dam broke; a flood which rushed in from a hidden, secret place, but with force enough to destroy all which lay in its path. Shuddering, gasping as though the air itself had turned to ash, Maleficent’s response was almost voiceless, drowning as it was in the grief of her regret.

“I dare not imagine such a thing, Beastie. I dare not imagine.”

* * *

The world had ended, and he was the only one who knew it.

Diaval lay on the floor in the darkness of Ingrith’s dungeon iron forge, breathing in the stench of the raw metal and staring into space at the dust motes which danced aimlessly in the dull chinks of light spilling through tiny gaps in the stone mortar; the only illumination in the vast, gloomy room. The passage of time was a moveable feast in the windowless cavern, removed from the outside world as though another universe entirely. He could have been lying there for mere minutes or several days for all that he knew, but for the clues provided by the low growling in his belly and the uncomfortable fullness of his bladder.

He had run from her, run from the pain of her revelation, and had somehow found his way into the deepest depths of Ulstead Castle, to where Ingrith’s army of ironsmiths had spent years preparing for her war on the Moors.

It was an ironic place for him to find himself, considering that it was the one place in the castle where Maleficent could not set foot; though the iron had been almost entirely removed, minute particles remained like fine dust throughout the chamber. She could not step into the room without experiencing pain at a minimum, and iron weakness at worst.

He could hide in here forever, if he wanted to.

After leaving Aurora’s bedchamber, Diaval had staggered along the long hallways of Ulstead Castle, scarcely aware of the brisk breeze which slipped like a secret lover along the passageways from the growing storm outside, such was the tempest within his own heart. He had moved by muscle memory, conscious of little else but the need to get away, to find a quiet, private place to lick his wounds and gather his thoughts, before he had no choice but to face the one who both sustained and shattered him.

He had not dared to believe that she would actually go ahead with her plan.

Perhaps, he had thought dispiritedly, he should have been a little cleverer, as ravens were supposed to be, and prepared himself for what had clearly been inevitable.

What had he honestly expected? For her to suddenly change her mind about Borra, about _love_ , and see into his heart after all these years to the truth of his feelings for her? Did he expect that one such as she would reciprocate?

He was a raven. A raven wearing a man disguise, and nothing more.

Nothing more.

Nothing at all, really.

Diaval had come to a stop toward the end of a dim, narrow hallway, not unlike the servants’ corridor at Járnahöll through which he and Vætki had made their escape. He had little idea as to how he had gotten himself there – his feet had kept walking, even as his mind had wallowed in its own personal prison – and he had even less idea as to how to find his way out.

If he had to be entirely honest with himself, he hardly cared if he _never_ found the way out.

He had seen a door some way down the hallway and had half-heartedly dragged himself over to it. If would lead _somewhere_ , and eventually he would find himself in a more familiar place. 

Well, probably. 

If not, he had supposed, Wilfred could regale his grandchildren with spooky tales of his lost raven grandfather, disappeared forever into the bowels of the castle one dark summer day, and whose spectre still haunted those draughty corridors in search of his lost love.

Considering the lengthy life expectancy of a Dark Fey, that lost love would most likely still be alive to meet those great great grandchildren, Diaval had realised with a pang. Would she even still remember him, after so many years? Or would his memory have faded into the obscurity of history as her new family, her family with Borra, took precedence over all that had come before?

He had exhaled loudly, mentally berating himself for being such a melancholy fool, dwelling on ridiculous scenarios involving his untimely death, and pushed his way through the door. 

On the other side, attached to a small landing and a spiralling staircase leading to the floor below, Diaval had discovered a long gangway, suspended above a darkened chamber which reeked of iron and human sweat. He had wandered along the gangway for a time, peering into the gloom of the foundry below, before returning to the staircase and making his way down to the ground.

At some point he had laid down among the dust and the iron debris, and there he remained, staring into nothingness and trying not to think.

He had promised that he would stand by her, even if she mated Borra. Though the promise had been to himself, and therefore he only had himself to answer to if he broke it, a promise was a promise. He would not abandon her. If she needed him – _when_ she needed him – he would be there for her, as he always had been. 

Diaval loved Maleficent, with every fibre of his raven being, and nothing would ever change that. There was comfort in recognising and acknowledging that truth and knowing that he would remain true to her irrespective of his own grief. There would be jealousy, certainly, as he bore witness to her mating another. Borra’s hands buried in the velvety depths of her feathers, preening until they shone. Borra’s arms around her, holding her close to him, their feathers mingling along with their breath as he kissed her. Borra joining his body to hers in ways that the urges of Diaval’s human form barely understood, but somehow longed for all the same. Borra’s children in her arms, their wings a confusion of deep brown and tawny beige, odd little creatures who would cause an indescribable new ache in his battered heart.

Diaval was not so proud as to deny those feelings, and he knew that they would only become stronger as his Mistress made her way along the path of life with Borra by her side and himself merely watching from the periphery. He would endure his anguish and envy alone and overcome it for her sake – respect his feelings, accept their presence, and begin to control them as best he could.

Love was not a possessive thing. He could never lay claim to Maleficent, any more than Borra could, for she was her own person, and his love for her granted him no rights that she herself did not permit. Instead, he would demonstrate his love for her by standing by her, forever being her wings, and never faltering. Not even once.

Not even now.

He sat up, wincing at the spasm of protest from his muscles and the liquid urge at the base of his belly. It must have been hours at least that he had lain there, for he recalled no need to relieve himself when he had found the iron foundry; now the demand was overwhelming. Shrugging, Diaval gave in to his baser impulses and unlaced his trousers, letting loose a steaming stream into the shadows. It was not as though the chamber was in use for someone to find his acrid puddle, after all.

Besides which, he genuinely did not care. _Take that, Ingrith, I piss upon your iron genocide._

Re-lacing himself, Diaval shuffled along toward where he remembered the spiral staircase to be, though the gloom within the foundry meant that he was relying upon the sensation of the floor below him and the vague shapes of the enormous forges to guide him along. He felt his way around a large pile of dusty ore, abandoned untouched after the Wedding Day Battle and Ingrith’s defeat. The pile was probably of extremely high value for the metal it contained, but it would remain forgotten where it lay in the foundry. It could command no price more valuable than peace, and Diaval knew that King John was far too intelligent to allow a kingdom full of iron when he strove to live in harmony with his fae neighbours.

Without warning, the smooth sameness of the floor changed abruptly, and Diaval swore loudly as he stubbed his toe on a discarded pair of tongs. Hissing and hopping, he quickly found another large piece of metal forge equipment by tripping over it; his ankle rolled and his knees gave way beneath him. Yelping as much in fright as in pain, he landed brutally on his behind in a pile of shields which had been left against the south wall.

As the dust settled around him, Diaval slowly pushed himself up to sit, flexing his limbs one at a time to ensure that there were no broken bones. Other than a slight twinge in the ankle he had twisted, he seemed unharmed – though he could not say the same for the shields beneath him. He was certain that he had managed to dent a few of them.

Still, what did it matter? The Ulsteadan soldiers had taken to using bronze armour after Aurora and Phillip’s wedding. None of them would ever touch these shields.

Or the sword, propped up against the wall nearby, which Diaval had suddenly noticed in his peripheral vision. He peered at it curiously in the gloom. Solid iron – he could smell it as clearly as he might a fragrant bloom at sunset in the Moors – and as simple a design as one might find in a sword. Though far plainer than the one that had belonged to Prince Fritjof, it had an air of weight to it, as though it could defend a kingdom and the one who wielded it singlehandedly.

Diaval rose, brushing himself off, and picked his way across the pile of shields to where the sword rested. Slowly, as though expecting it to bite him, he reached for the grip and closed his fist around it. Had he been Fey, such a motion would have seared his palm in seconds, but he was no such magical creature. The sword grip was cold and solid in his hand – reliable, _comforting_ in a strange sort of way.

He raised the sword, stumbling somewhat under the unexpected weight of it, and examined the blade as best he could in the dim light. Whoever had crafted this sword had done their job properly; it had been whet to deadly sharpness, a true weapon against the fae.

A thought flittered across Diaval’s mind, somewhere just below consciousness, and he latched onto it like a lifeline. A possibility – ridiculous, perhaps, and most likely foolish – but an idea which would not go unheeded. He could still protect his Mistress. Protect her, serve her – keep her from harm. He could use this sword.

_He could use it._


	23. Chapter 23

She was hardly in the mood for a good interrogation, but she had little choice in the matter.

After helping Aurora, (albeit reluctantly, as her daughter _should_ have been resting), into one of the high-backed armchairs by the fire where she cradled Wilfred and awaited the arrival of her lady-in-waiting, Maleficent had swept from her bedchamber to the main entrance of the castle several stories below. Aurora had insisted that Maleficent leave her to go down and ensure that Lickspittle did not escape his incarceration – though not before she had seen fit to call her insufferable and ridiculous and blind. Weak as she was, she had let fly with the inner steel which made her a true queen, directing any number of accusations at her mother and ensuring that Maleficent knew precisely how foolish her daughter thought that she was.

Little did Aurora know that Maleficent was all too aware of all of these things, and was quite capable of emotionally tormenting herself _without_ any assistance, thank you very much.

She had no idea what do to anymore. Having promised herself to Borra, it seemed disrespectful to withdraw from their agreement. The volatile Desert Fey would undoubtedly be upset, and whilst she had no qualms about defending herself nor uncertainty about her ability to do so, she could not help the cold rush of fear which accompanied her speculation on what Borra might do to Diaval on learning that he was the reason behind Maleficent’s change of heart.

Never mind that despite Aurora’s assertions, she could not help but question if Diaval genuinely shared her feelings. He had been shocked and hurt, certainly – she might even have gone as far as to say _devastated_. Still, Maleficent wondered if his reaction was more a result of her ignoring his vehement objections to her proposed mating, rather than a broken heart. There were many ways in which one being could love another, and she doubted that a raven would find a Dark Fey physically appealing enough to want to mate with her.

(What _did_ ravens find attractive, anyway? Shiny feathers, she supposed, and bright eyes. Physical skill and cleverness. _Raven_ things.)

It hardly mattered. She was not about to upset her tenuous strategy for something as silly as falling in love with a man-bird who most probably did not reciprocate those feelings anyway. He would probably leave her in time – his reaction in Aurora’s bedchamber seemed to solidify that theory, as he had been absent since. If not for the fact that he had been in his human form at the time, she would have assumed that he had already left, never to be seen again.

A wretched ache had blossomed within her chest at the thought of losing him. Not to death – no, that would be _truly_ unbearable – but as the worst consequence of her own uncertain choices.

Maleficent told herself that she could endure his absence if she knew that he was somewhere in the world, safe and happy and living a life of his own – free to find the mate that she knew he craved and raise the family that he quietly longed for. She would miss him – gods, she would miss him more than she had missed the freedom of her wings for all those dark, miserable years of Aurora’s childhood – but if he was happy, then she could be… well, _content_. True happiness was another thing entirely.

True happiness was beyond her, anyway.

Her footsteps were as loud as thunder beneath her, and the harsh sweep of her wings against the stone floor almost rivalled the rushing wind outside as she made her way into toward main antechamber at the castle entrance.

Phillip’s voice echoed through the open door ahead of her. From what Maleficent could discern, it sounded as though the prince was trying to reason with Lickspittle.

How _valiant_ of him.

Valiant and _pointless_.

She emerged through the doorway in time to see the pixie attempt an escape. He suddenly bolted to one side and around, trying to make for the castle doors, evidently hoping that the element of surprise would see to facilitating his release. The presence of a dozen guards in the only nearby exit did not seem to deter him.

Unfortunately for Lickspittle, Borra had a solid grip on the pixie’s upper arm. Instead of escaping, Lickspittle found his feet sliding out from beneath him as he was roughly yanked back. He hissed and spit like a feral cat as he tried in vain to twist his arm free. The Desert Fey laughed at Lickspittle’s efforts, his chortle morphing into a truly diabolical laugh when he spied Maleficent approaching.

“Now you’re in for it. I told you Maleficent would be here soon.” he growled gleefully into the pixie’s pointed ear. Alarmed, Lickspittle renewed his attempts to escape.

“Lickspittle, nobody is going to hurt you.” Phillip assured him, moving toward the frantic creature and kneeling at eye level.

“Speak for yourself.” Borra muttered, his mirth taking on a dangerous, threatening undertone.

“Hm,” Maleficent commented by way of agreement, “I think that it largely depends on Lickspittle’s willingness to answer our questions.” She fixed the pixie with a withering stare, freezing him in place by intimidation alone.

“Perhaps we should move this into the library instead of in full view of anyone walking past the main doors?” Phillip suggested, “I believe Father is in there with Percival already.”

“How _wonderful_.” Maleficent drawled menacingly, baring her sharp, white fangs. Her eyes, unblinking, remained on Lickspittle’s frightened face, dancing with barely concealed glee at his distress.

Perhaps there would be some enjoyment in this after all.

* * *

The weather was unseasonably stormy, even for the summer. Unlike the usual squalls of the season, this storm seemed to be lasting a remarkably long time, increasing in ferocity all the while. Aurora sat in a high-backed armchair by the unlit fireplace in her bedchamber, cradling Wilfred as he slept and gazing through the windows at the turbulent sky. It appeared to be trying to rain, but the clouds seldom seemed to stay in place long enough for it to happen.

“Vætki and Ekkert of Nyrsta Vígi, your Highness.”

Aurora looked up from the sleeping child in her arms at her lady-in-waiting’s announcement. The two young siblings stood in the doorway of her chamber; the boy, Ekkert, looking around the room with an expression of delighted wonder, and the girl Vætki – more of a young woman, really – staring pointedly at her ragged shoes.

“Thank you, Mathilda.” Aurora replied. “Vætki, Ekkert, please come in.”

Ekkert bounded into the room with the enthusiasm of a fawn in springtime and a grin which split his face near in two, and bounced over to Aurora in the chair. “Hello, Your Majesty! Hello baby! You look happy, baby, even though you’re sleeping. I’m glad that you’re happy.” He redirected his attention to Aurora, who was gaping at him like a fish, and commented seriously, “I don’t think that he liked Járnahöll very much.”

“Ekkert!” Vætki hissed, her face a study in mortified distress. “Why don’t you go and look out of the window? See if there is a break in the storm.” She shooed him over to the balcony doors before returning her attention to Aurora, bowing her head and grimacing apologetically.

“He doesn’t mean to be rude or insensitive, Your Majesty. He just says the first thing that comes into his mind.”

“I see.” Aurora replied, studying the younger woman carefully and drawing herself up taller in the chair. “Perhaps your brother’s role in all of this can be explained away by his simple and tractable nature, and he may be excused on those grounds. You, however, are entirely of sound mind and knew exactly what you were doing. Under the circumstances, I believe that you owe me an explanation as to why you saw fit to abduct my son.”

Vætki said nothing for several long moments. Her eyes never left the floor, though Aurora could see them clearly enough to notice the tears beginning to well within them. The girl’s lower lip trembled slightly.

Finally, she raised her watery gaze to Aurora’s expectant one, a tiny blink releasing a single tear which tracked a path down her thin cheek. Despite having every intention of being furious with the siblings for their crime against her and her family, Aurora could not help but feel a twinge of empathy. If her parents were to be believed – and Aurora had no reason to mistrust them – then this girl before her had experienced more grief and hardship in her short life than some experienced in half a century.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The Warlock would have killed us had we not taken him, but I should have come to you instead of doing his bidding. I have no excuse.” Vætki exhaled tremulously, “I will accept whatever punishment that you deem fit, Your Majesty. I deserve it. But…” she paused, glancing over at her brother by the window, who had pushed his face up against the glass and was meticulously licking circular patterns on it, “Please don’t punish Ekkert. He only did what he was told to. His whole life has been following the orders of others because he cannot think for himself. He cannot be held responsible. Please.”

Ekkert, cognisant of his sister mentioning his name but registering nothing of what she had said, murmured, “It’s very stormy. That cloud looks angry.”

Aurora sighed, giving Vætki a look reminiscent of one that Diaval had been known to give Maleficent when he was especially exasperated with her, but unable to be truly angry. She _wanted_ to be angry – _desperately_ so. This young woman and her brother had stolen her baby from her. She had almost died of rampant milk fever as a result, and now, despite having been healed, could no longer feed her own child. Aurora had every right to be furious.

Every right, and yet no will to be.

Compassion was a quality intrinsic to her nature. Though Knotgrass’ christening gift had granted her beauty (such that it was – for she largely resembled her mother, who had been beautiful anyway), and Flittle’s a lifetime of happiness (although Aurora frequently questioned the efficacy of _that_ particular spell), her ability to empathise and love all of those around her, even those who did her wrong, was entirely her own. She could not find it in her heart to right a wrong with what she felt was another wrong – a lesson that Maleficent’s christening curse had taught her all too well.

“I am not going to punish you, Vætki.”

“You’re not?”

“I have already spoken to Diaval and Maleficent, who have provided me with…” Aurora paused, trying to find a word which would not cause the girl upset, “ _Information_ , on what it was that you and your brother experienced at the hands of the Warlock. I believe you when you say that you had no choice. All the more so because you have come here before me, willing to accept any penance which I may bestow upon you, when you have had every opportunity to avoid doing so.”

Vætki was crying in earnest now. She knelt before Aurora, biting back sobs, and whispered, “What I did was unforgivable. I lost my own babies – I know all too well how you must have felt to find your baby gone. I can never apologise enough for inflicting such suffering upon you.”

“And that is why I will not punish you, Vætki. You punish yourself already.”

“Every day, Your Majesty. For the rest of my life.” the younger woman responded softly, frowning with a premonitory sort of pensiveness, “However long that may prove to be.”

Aurora cradled Wilfred closer, inhaling his sweet baby scent and trying not to dwell on what might have been as she responded, “I very nearly died yesterday. Had Mother not arrived in time to heal me, I would have. Don’t wish your life away – it can so easily end without warning.”

“My life has been constant misery for many years, Your Majesty. I am far less attached to it than you are to yours.” Vætki replied wearily.

“It pains me to hear that. What happened to you was unforgiveable, but it does not need to be that way ever again. You will stay here in Ulstead – you and your brother – and we will ensure that the pain of your past does not continue into the future.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “But why, Your Majesty? I kidnapped your son! I don’t deserve your compassion.”

“You kidnapped my son at the behest of your master, yes, but you also cared for Wilfred – fed him, kept him safe.” Aurora unconsciously held Wilfred more tightly, all too aware of how much worse the entire situation could have been.

“Only for as long as the Master allowed it.” Vætki sniffled, “At the next full moon, he would have been used as a sacrifice. Tomorrow night. I… I would not have been brave enough to prevent it.”

The wind sighed through the cracks beneath the balcony doors, occasionally reaching a shrill crescendo before abating to a soft breath once more. The glass rattled, trembling as though in fear of the storm brewing beyond them, and a smattering of rain pattered across the windows, thrown by an unseen hand. Still beside them, peering inquisitively into the world outside, stood Ekkert.

“That’s a funny looking horse.” he muttered curiously, cocking his head to one side. He leaned his palms on the glass, peering out into the tempestuous gloom, and remarked with quiet surprise, “Oh, it’s flying.”

Aurora had been warned that the boy was simple, strange, even, and so though she heard his comment, she took it to be the product of his imagination. Unless the horse was Diaval in the shape of a Pegasus, it was not a flying horse.

Aurora clenched her teeth. Though her son was safe, she could not allow the situation to rest until she knew all that the girl before her did. “Tell me what he planned.”

Vætki had drawn within herself, oblivious to her brother’s unusual proclamations, troubled as she was by the information Aurora had requested. Her eyes, when she finally looked up at the Moorland Queen, were positively ancient; eyes which had seen cruelty beyond imagining and wanted nothing more than to escape from the only world that she knew.

“The Master used stolen magic. He had the body of the Erlkönig attached to his back, which was where the power came from. But the Erlkönig was dying, and the Master wanted to claim the magic as his own before he lost it forever. That needed a blood sacrifice at the full moon. He chose your son because they shared the blood of the former king of Nyrsta Vígi, which would have strengthened the sacrifice.”

“Without the Erlkönig’s magic, he was a mortal man?”

“As mortal as you or I. The Erlkönig would not have survived another month; what was left of him was already beginning to putrefy. The Master was becoming desperate. Though the magic was solely that of the Erlkönig, they were physically joined as one being. When the Erlkönig died, the Master would have as well.”

“Vætki,” Aurora said, leaning toward the girl, “You knew him best, horrible as that is. You knew his power best. When my mother collapsed Járnahöll onto him, do you believe that there was any chance, however remote, that he could have survived? The full moon is not yet upon us. Is my son safe?”

Vætki grimaced, as though imagining how it must feel to have tons of solid stone rain down upon her. “I would assume so.”

“The Master is alive.” Ekkert called from across the room. He leaned his forehead on the cold glass and watched, cross-eyed, as a raindrop slowly meandered down the length of the window.

“Hopefully not.” Vætki replied with a frown.

“It’s _stormy_.” Ekkert retorted.

“Storms occur without the Master often enough.”

“He’s alive.” the boy insisted stubbornly.

Vætki flashed Aurora an apologetic smile. “He’ll probably keep claiming that for a few weeks, until he forgets.”

“Could he be right?”

Vætki bit her lower lip uncertainly, though her eyes were oddly unreadable. “For all of his stolen magic, the Master was still a man. He was just as vulnerable to falling rocks as any other man would be. I would not feel confident to assure you without question, but he is _most probably_ dead.”

“He’s alive. You don’t listen.” Ekkert muttered, his lips almost pressed against the window.

“He’s going to keep repeating that until something distracts him.” Vætki sighed.

Aurora felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. She felt such responsibility to her brother, and there was no doubt that the boy needed her, but perhaps the two would benefit from some independence from each other. She could employ Vætki in the castle – she would have to speak further with the girl to find where her strengths lay to assign her to the best position – but a role for Ekkert was thankfully far easier to settle upon.

“Ekkert,” Aurora called to the boy, “Would you like a job in our stables? You did say at the christening that you love horses.”

Ekkert’s eyes lit up and a bright, toothy grin split his face clear in two. “Really? I could look after the horses?”

“Certainly,” Aurora smiled, “Including the ones that you brought from Nyrsta Vígi. They are fine animals, and I have no doubt that they will be pleased to see you.”

The boy beamed like a child at Yuletide as he gambolled over to her awkwardly, as though his skinny frame could barely contain his excitement. “Yes! Yes please! Can I go there now?”

“Of course you may. Mathilda?” Aurora smiled indulgently, calling to her lady-in-waiting, “Please see Ekkert down to the stables and advise the stablemaster that he is to work there henceforth in whatever capacity he sees fit.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Mathilda gave a short bow and beckoned to Ekkert, who followed her with the enthusiasm of a overjoyed puppy, his delighted chatter slowly fading as they made their way down the hallway.

Vætki watched him go before turning back to Aurora with a tiny smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Ekkert will be in heaven working in the stables. Even if all that he is doing is shovelling manure.”

“I hope so – although our stablemaster is unlikely to assign him to shovel-duty alone, especially if he is as attuned to the horses as you say.” Aurora smiled. Now all that she needed to do was to find an equally ideal position for his sister, and trust that her judgement of their characters was sound.

* * *

Phillip splayed his hands on the writing desk, leaning over Lickspittle in the chair before him in a futile attempt to be intimidating. The pixie was watching him with a hint of amusement in his unseelie eyes, waiting for the prince to attempt his best grilling. Having spent years being browbeaten by the rabid wolf that was Queen Ingrith, her foppish son was about as threatening to him as a fluffy little cub. It was only the presence of a scowling Percival beside Phillip that seemed to keep Lickspittle seated in the chair at all.

On the other side of Prince Phillip, trying valiantly to hide his bewilderment – Maleficent realised all too late that he had not been privy to any of the conversations had after Prince Wilfred’s return, and therefore had absolutely no idea what was going on – stood King John. To the king’s credit, however, he had taken the events of the previous hour in his stride, as was his way (it still amazed Maleficent that King John had been so calm and accommodating when waking up from his curse on the day of the battle to find half of his castle in ruins, bodies littering Ulstead, and the gardens filled with strange creatures that he had never before seen – never mind his nonchalance about his wife and queen’s sudden metamorphosis into a nanny-goat. She found herself respecting the King of Ulstead more than most of the humans that she had come to know, if only because his attitude to the unusual tended to err on the side of bemused acceptance).

Borra had taken up a position beside her at Lickspittle’s left, though he seemed far more interested in touching her than wringing answers from their pixie prisoner. As Phillip glared at Lickspittle, the Desert Fey was casually stroking one of her primaries, under the guise of smoothing out the barbs. It bothered her more than she cared to admit; though it had been years since her wings had been returned to her, Maleficent still found herself wary of allowing them to be touched, especially without her explicit consent. 

She allowed Aurora, though her daughter seldom attempted such a thing anyway, as she understood that her mother found it uncomfortable. Diaval, of course, preened her wings regularly – how else could they be kept so immaculate and healthy? – but Diaval was _Diaval_. It had never occurred to her to be discomfited by the careful, meticulous way in which he ran his fingers through her feathers, cleaning and neatening each individual pinion, each tiny covert, until her wings gleamed. He was a bird, and he treated her wings with the same scrupulous respect that he afforded his own. She trusted him.

Maleficent’s tolerance for having her wings touched, however, began and ended with the girl and the raven. She flicked them out of Borra’s reach.

No doubt they _did_ need preening – it had not been done for more than a day, and nowhere near as often as usual in the preceding week, (as a certain fastidious raven tended toward grooming them twice a day whenever he could) – but it was hardly the time nor the place, even if Borra was still her intended. Preening was an intimate sort of thing, to be done during times of rest and respite, not something which took precedence over more important matters.

Such as making Lickspittle wish that he had never been born.

“Why did you do all of this to my uncle?” Phillip demanded in what Maleficent suspected was supposed to be a deeply threatening tone. Lickspittle gave the prince a disdainful look.

“I didn’t know you had an uncle.” the pixie replied rudely, unconvincingly feigning confusion. Maleficent rolled her eyes – after the events of the previous few hours, her patience for the vile little creature’s games was non-existent – and flicked her index finger, sending a weak stinging hex toward Lickspittle’s privates. He yelped, which Maleficent found deeply gratifying, and leapt in the chair. Turning to her with an indignant scowl, he spat, “What did you do that for?!”

She smiled malevolently.

Leaning forward so that her face was mere inches from the pixie’s, Maleficent narrowed her eyes and replied evenly, “Prince Phillip asked you a question.”

Were it possible for a look alone to kill, then Maleficent might have dropped dead on the spot. Lickspittle glared at her, his eyes raking up and down as though appraising her worth and finding her too terrifying to pass judgement upon. 

Finally, he hissed, “And I have no wish to answer it! It was years ago, and I haven’t seen the man since. Not that I knew he existed anyway, mind you. Never knew about an uncle, no, no,” Lickspittle continued, his rage degenerating into his distinctive spluttering, “It’s ancient history now. Ancient history. Not that I know anything about it anyway.”

He sighed melodramatically. Maleficent had never been fond of the pixie, but what little tolerance she had managed previously had evaporated like dew in the morning sun. His obstinance set her hackles rising. There was no need for it – he was an intelligent creature, for all that he lacked in morality. How could he fail to understand that cooperation would result in a better outcome for him?

Perhaps, Maleficent thought coolly, he lacked the appropriate introspection because he was preoccupied with baser considerations.

“Rendered _impotent_ through _torture_!” Lickspittle lamented, adopting a pathetic expression of self-pity as he tried desperately to evoke a measure of sympathy from his captors, “How has my life come to this?”

“If that tiny hex rendered you impotent, then you were beyond help anyway.” Maleficent snapped, “Your falsehoods fool nobody. Borra and I have already spoken to you about Prince Fritjof – do you suppose that we have forgotten? _Answer_ the _question_.” She leaned toward Lickspittle menacingly again, raising the first two fingers on her left hand, and arched an eyebrow as though daring him to continue to defy her. Beside her, she heard Borra growl low in his throat; a feral rumble which spoke of a delight in battle and a keen willingness to inflict whatever misery his foe rightfully deserved.

Lickspittle crumbled.

“I did nothing that he did not want, not at all! He asked me to do it. _Begged_ me.” whimpered the pixie, his peculiar yellow eyes widening to emphasise his point. His head bobbed from side to side as he replayed the unpleasant memory in his mind, before finally continuing perfunctorily, “In the end, he threatened me, and that was why I did it. I expected that he would die, but he was strong, very strong.”

“Explain.”

“It was Fritjof’s idea. All of the _especially_ horrible ideas were his, oh yes. Don’t you go thinking that your uncle was a nice man, or a victim, no, no,” Lickspittle waggled his finger at Phillip, “He was a nasty, _nasty_ creature. Born that way, I expect, just like his sister. Two peas in a pod, her and him. Cold, so cold, and cruel when they failed to have their way. We’re all much better off now that they’re gone, much better off.”

“My mother is still alive.” Phillip retorted.

“She is?” Lickspittle asked in genuine surprise. His head whipped around as though expecting Ingrith to materialise from behind one of the bookshelves.

“Well, yes,” King John piped up, “Did you think that we made her into a stew the day after the wedding?”

The pixie shrugged at him. “It would not have been an undeserved punishment.”

Phillip was horrified. “At no point did we consider _eating_ Mother.”

Maleficent raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Perhaps _Phillip_ had not considered eating her, but she had a vivid recollection of a lively conversation with Diaval some days after the wedding as the raven man pored over an Ulsteadan recipe book – he had stolen it from the castle library, the little thief – on ways that the dishes could be adapted to include chevon. She seldom laughed aloud, but her sides had ached deliciously that day.

Such a shame that the humans remained so obstinately attached to the one who had wronged them. Ingrith could have fed them all for weeks.

John put a hand on his son’s shoulder, responding to Phillip’s glance with a barely perceptible shake of his head. “Perhaps we should all agree that Ingrith was not the person that we hoped she was, and move on?”

“Oh yes, yes,” Lickspittle agreed rather sycophantically, “Not the person that we hoped she was at all.” His expression darkened for a moment in recollection of his personal history with the fiendish queen.

Maleficent sighed impatiently, startling the pixie out of his memories. “Continue, Lickspittle. How did you merge Prince Fritjof and the Erlkönig?”

Lickspittle sat up straighter, squirming in the seat to make himself comfortable. He seemed altogether too enthused by the prospect of relating his ignoble pursuits to a receptive audience; Maleficent made a mental note to put the fear of the ancient gods in him at her earliest convenience. He grinned toothily, weaving his knobbly fingers together into an arch and leaning his hands on his knees. His enthusiasm was palpable, and it made Maleficent vaguely nauseous.

“I had largely perfected the technique already, you see, but only with lower animals. Never humans, or humanoid creatures. I had planned to attempt the merging of a hulder and a satyr, but the satyr escaped before I had the chance to catch the hulder. Several of the fused specimens survived for some time after the procedure. None more than three months, though – a season and no longer. I suspect that Fritjof only survived as long as he did because of the Erlkönig’s magic.”

“It was failing him. He was dying.” Maleficent countered.

Lickspittle shrugged, “I never promised him that it would last forever, oh no. I would never promise such a thing. He still insisted that I go ahead, the arrogant little fool.”

“Pots and kettles…” John muttered under his breath.

“Your Majesty?”

“Never mind. Please go on.”

Lickspittle nodded. “The procedure is not simple. Fritjof had incapacitated the Erlkönig – ran a sharpened stick clear through the side of his skull, like a skewer of meat over a fire.” He made an exaggerated thrusting gesture to demonstrate. 

Maleficent felt Borra’s eyes on her and glanced toward him. Though not blessed with the specific magic that would have afforded her the power of telepathy, she had absolutely no doubt as to the nature of the Desert Fey’s thoughts. She narrowed her eyes at him in warning – _do not attack the sociopathic pixie, Borra. Not yet, anyway._

His lower lip twitched in a barely perceptible pout.

“Maybe later.” Maleficent muttered from the corner of her mouth.

Lickspittle, unaware of the reticent conversation taking place at his left, nor the almost onanistic expression on the male Fey’s face which had resulted from that conversation, continued with his recollection.

“There was no consciousness left, just the body. We removed the limbs one by one. I stitched a flap of skin over each stump, and over his head too. Most of the brain was damaged, and so I scooped it out. Just left the part that was keeping the heart beating and the lungs breathing. I do not possess especially strong magic, unfortunately, but there was enough to keep the body from dying in the time it took to prepare Fritjof and perform the procedure to join them.

I wanted to put Fritjof into an eldritch sleep, the sort that needs a jolt of magic to awaken from, using a combination of my own magic and an _ingenious_ potion – of my own devising, might I add. I derived the formula from decoctions of vervain and elderflowers in equal quantities, then added hops, and finally, the tiniest bit of mandrake. Not enough to kill him, just enough to put him to sleep. I calculated the quantity based upon his weight, yes, but I suppose it was a dangerous thing to do. Decoction strength depends on all sorts of factors-”

“Lickspittle,” Phillip warned.

“Right, yes. He would not allow it. I suppose he didn’t trust me – me! – and insisted that I go ahead when he was still conscious. Although,” the pixie chortled, “He didn’t stay that way for long. Screamed himself hoarse and fainted – so much for the bravado! I should have just killed him then. It didn’t occur to me at the time – I wanted to see if the experiment would work. I had opened his back with a blade – bronze, it was, although I had an iron one on hand, wrapped in a cloth – and opened the Erlkönig’s belly as well. Sewing them together was hard work, and it took many hours. Lots of small blood vessels, tangles of them. I thought that one or both of them would surely die, but they held on, with a bit of help from my magic to keep them from bleeding out. I used the iron knife to cauterise the wounds. It started to burn Fritjof’s skin as well, just a little bit. Pinked him up rather than blistered, it did, but it told me that the magic was being shared.”

“A blood sacrifice should have been sufficient to move the magic into Fritjof entirely. Why did you not simply kill the Erlkönig and save the trouble?” Maleficent queried, looking at Lickspittle as though he was irrefutably the stupidest being in the known universe. Surely using the near-dead Erlkönig as a sacrifice would have made the entire procedure more straightforward, and indeed, far more effective?

“Blood sacrifice?” Lickspittle questioned. “Why would I need a blood sacrifice? That would be messy, and then I would have to clean it up!”

Borra snorted. “He doesn’t know. He plays at sorcery but knows nothing of the older, deeper magic.”

“A fool who plays with power that he cannot possibly understand.” Maleficent hissed in agreement, “Have you any concept of the danger that you could have unleashed in these ‘experiments’?”

“I would have killed him if he proved to be dangerous!”

“But you didn’t, did you?” Borra snarled. His seized one of Lickspittle’s large, pointed ears and tugged on it painfully, “You let him go, and look at what he did.”

“I- I bear no res-responsibility for the actions of oth-others!” the pixie stammered, clawing fruitlessly at Borra’s fingers in an attempt to prise them off.

“Perhaps not, but you bear responsibility for your own – and your own actions are what have brought us here.” the Desert Fey barked, squeezing Lickspittle’s ear with greater force. Deep purple bruises were already beginning to spread from beneath his fingers.

“Borra,” Maleficent interjected with a light touch to his shoulder, “We need to hear all that Lickspittle can tell us _before_ you punish him.”

He narrowed his eyes. “But after?”

Maleficent arched an eyebrow and shrugged. She was hardly about to deny him, if only because Lickspittle would likely be more forthcoming if he felt that she would set Borra on him if he were not.

Grinning viciously, Borra returned his attention to Lickspittle, growling menacingly mere inches from the pixie’s face. “I am not done with you.” He released Lickspittle ear roughly and folded his arms over his chest, remaining well within the smaller creature’s personal space.

“Ah, all right… yes… where was I?” Lickspittle stuttered, licking his lips nervously as he watched Borra’s looming shape from the corner of his eye, “Yes – at last, they were joined. I applied a poultice to encourage healing. Another of my brilliant innovations, of course – this one had shepherd’s purse and thistle, essence of laurelwood and so on. You know, I could be of great use here in the castle. My medicinal knowledge is most excellent, and-”

“ _Lickspittle_!” Maleficent and Phillip barked in unison. Borra slowly and deliberately placed his hand on the pixie’s shoulder. Lickspittle yelped.

“I kept Fritjof asleep for almost a month, to give him a chance to heal, and helped where I could with my magic.” he whimpered, curling himself away from the Desert Fey’s foreboding form. “Fed him broth laced with my potion, spoon by spoon, to keep him unconscious until the pain had diminished enough to be tolerable. I wasn’t a monster! There was no sign of any rejection, and the two bodies were fusing together nicely. Once I woke him, he rallied quickly. He was starting to use the Erlkönig’s magic within a month of waking.”

“And then? What happened after that?” Phillip pressed.

“It took Fritjof only a month, a month and a half more, and he had gained almost perfect control over the Erlkönig’s magic.”

“Almost perfect?”

Lickspittle grimaced, curling his lip as though suddenly assailed by a foul odour. “When he lost his temper – which was _often_ , mind you, he was an angry, _angry_ boy – he would create storms out of nowhere. There’s an entire section of the northern Moors, about two miles south of the cave cottage, that is still flattened to this day because of one of his tantrums. Manifested a _tornado_ , he did, and wiped out everything within a half-mile radius!” He wiped a hand over his face, shuddering. “He didn’t stay long after that. Took off north, he did, and I never saw him again. I assumed that he died years ago, considering that my other specimens lasted mere months.”

“He did not. He survived for years, until his deteriorating condition had him abduct Prince Wilfred.” Maleficent replied coolly.

Lickspittle shrugged indifferently. “It hardly matters now. Unfortunate that he stole the little prince, but you got him back alive and well, yes? And as for Fritjof, well, he got his comeuppance. You killed him in the end, didn’t you?”

Maleficent hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of the rapid rhythm of her heart at Lickspittle’s flippant question, as shivers like bolts of lightning sparked along her spine and to the very tips of her wings. Though tons of falling stone should have dispatched the Warlock easily, she could not help the doubt which crept into her subconscious each time that she was asked to confirm his death. It was as though her uncertainties had gained sentience and were using it to torment her for having left her task unfinished.

She could all but hear the thundering of her heartbeat from outside of her body. It made her uneasy, in a portentous way that she had known all too many times before and ultimately found herself regretting. Still, she had no other response to offer but an affirmation of the pixie’s words.

“Yes.”

* * *

“Ah, there you go,” Diaval muttered to himself, opening the door fully as he realised that it led outside. The lower sections of Ulstead Castle were a labyrinth of long hallways and unexpected dead ends, as though the long-dead architects had intended it to be inescapable to all but those who knew it intimately. It had taken over an hour of backtracking and randomly guessed directions for fate to smile upon Diaval – he had found his way into a sizeable laundry room, strung from above with rows upon rows of lines for hanging washing on days of inclement weather, and from there had located a small, unobtrusive wooden door with an internal latch.

He stopped for a moment to sit, resting the sword against the castle wall beside him and rolling his shoulders to chase away the ache that was beginning to set in from lugging the damnable thing all the way up from the dungeon. He was reasonably strong, especially considering that he had started his life as a bird, but a solid iron sword in good condition was a heavy thing indeed.

Diaval cast his gaze out into the expansive castle garden before him, frowning at the swaying topiaries and endless rows of rustling hedge borders, and willed Borra to wander along and spare him the effort of searching. 

He spotted a blackbird pair above the hedges, diving and soaring as they feasted on the innumerable insects being blown about by the wind. The male landed precariously on the head of a stone statue – some sort of cherub, Diaval surmised, those odd little fat baby angels that the humans seemed to think were adorable. His feathers ruffled and whipped as he surveyed the area, fighting to keep from being blown off the statue. The blackbird let out a fluted sort of warble to his mate, the sort of melodious trill that Diaval himself could never quite achieve with his raven syrinx, and dived back toward the swarm of insects. He was showing off for her.

 _My best to you, brother. May you have more luck than I_ , Diaval thought despondently.

By the west wall, a strange-looking horse stood idle, bony and angular and as dark as his feathers, but without a hint of their shine. It was probably a gift from another land – he had never seen such a horse in Ulstead or Perceforest – where they bred their horses to appear as demonic and threatening as possible. An interesting battle tactic, Diaval thought, but if an invading army were to have a similar reaction to the horse as he, then it was likely quite an effective one. It was an unnerving creature, and Diaval quietly hoped that it would stay exactly where it was.

Or better yet, go back to whichever diabolical netherworld had spewed it forth. He shuddered.

A pair of scruffy variegated tawny wings were nowhere to be seen within his view of the garden, however. It was wishful thinking to expect that Borra would be so easily found, but a raven could hope.

When last he had checked, the Desert Fey had been in Ulstead, having forcibly dragged Lickspittle to meet his accusers, but that had been hours before. The sun was low in the sky behind a thick blanket of cloud now, though it was difficult to tell precisely how late it was. The brewing storm was promising to be a fierce one, and the clouds hung heavy and dark, muting what little light remained in the day. There was no guarantee that Borra was even still nearby.

No matter. He was somewhere, and wherever that somewhere happened to be, Diaval would find him.

A tiny movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned his head toward it slowly, an eyebrow canting upward as he spied a little brown mouse nosing about near a cavity in the castle stonework.

Diaval suddenly remembered that he was rather hungry.

As a raven, he could have caught the mouse without a second thought. Swooping down upon it from above, the rodent would have sensed nothing amiss until it was already clutched in his strong talons. As a raven, the mouse would also have made quite a decent meal.

As a human, it was little more than a snack, but with nothing else on offer, Diaval was hardly about to complain about the relative size of the mouse to his human belly – especially as the snack was entirely contingent on him catching the thing in the first place.

He sat as still as death but for his eyes, which followed the progress of the mouse as it meandered its way toward him. The wind was on his side; ordinarily, he would have had to concern himself with considerations of being downwind of his prey, but during his time in the dungeon the weather had become quite squally, such that it did just prior to rain, and the wind was managing to blow in several different directions at once. Though the mouse could likely smell him, it was probably also smelling several thousand other things and becoming quite confused by it all.

Good.

Diaval tensed as the mouse drew close enough for him to reach it, barely breathing as the tiny rodent became the sole focus of his universe. Its little nose twitched in the air, searching for the source of the predator smell, but the beady black eyes saw no danger. Had it looked up just a little higher, it would have seen another pair of eyes, just as dark and even more keen, fixated upon each and every tiny move that it made; focused, unblinking, waiting for the moment to strike.

It came.

The mouse strayed close to Diaval’s still hand, pausing for a moment as the predator scent became overwhelming. Startling, it bolted for the hole in the castle wall, but the raven man’s reflexes were much faster. His hand shot out like lightning and seized the mouse as it began to run, two long fingers either side of its neck, and snapped the spine in the same fluid motion.

“Gotcha.” Diaval muttered. He held the creature up by the tail, looking into its beady eyes, now blank in death. It was a tiny morsel, barely even an entire mouthful.

Better than an empty belly, though.

Tilting his head back, Diaval dangled the mouse over his open mouth and swallowed it whole. The fur tickled the back of his throat – not something which he needed to consider as a raven – and he fought the urge to cough until it had moved down into his stomach.

Wholly unsatisfying, but still, better than nothing.

Rising to his feet, Diaval picked up the sword again and made for the vast castle garden. Perhaps he would be fortunate enough to find his quarry there.


	24. Chapter 24

Percival bolted the heavy dungeon door with a decided thud and turned to Phillip beside him. “Is this even going to hold him?” He jerked his head back toward the door and Lickspittle behind it. They could hear the pixie railing at them through the solid iron, shrieking and hurling insults in a language that neither one of them recognised.

Phillip shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. Mother kept him in here for years, but I don’t think that he realised that he was a pixie with magical abilities back then. In any case, I can’t think of what else to do with him.”

“You’ll be going back up to Her Majesty’s rooms?” Percival asked, leading the way up the narrow dungeon staircase to the chamber above. Reaching a small trapdoor, he pushed on it carefully, and it opened with the deafening creak of unlubricated metal. This particular area of the dungeon had been one of Ingrith’s secret additions; indeed, Phillip had not known about the trapdoor hidden beneath the stark white knotted-wool rug in her morning room until after her attempted genocide.

There had been rather a lot that he had not known about his mother until that day, and what he had learned made him sick to his stomach. Though he had always found a kindred spirit in King John and had been closer to his father almost from the moment of his birth, the thought of sharing the blood of one who would do such harm through sheer prejudice and hate was sobering.

He supposed that it was too much to hope that his father had gotten him on the wrong side of the blanket with a chambermaid and then encouraged Ingrith to adopt his adorable by-blow.

“Shortly,” Phillip replied, gripping Percival’s arm as the captain of the guard helped him through the trapdoor and into a neat room with a yew writing-desk by the window, “Father and Maleficent are already there – the weather is so bad that I think she plans to stay in Ulstead overnight.” He frowned uncomfortably at the thought. Aurora had once mentioned something about a nest – apparently, faeries slept in them like birds. Would Maleficent build herself one in the castle? Or would she be content for a night in a human bed?

Perhaps she would not sleep at all, and instead would spend the night looming over them like an overgrown, ill-tempered bat.

“And Borra?”

“Doing a perimeter check. Yes, even in this wind.” Phillip caught Percival’s questioning gaze and continued, “Don’t ask. I was hardly about to tell him no when he suggested it – have you seen the biceps on him? If he wants to take an active role in castle security, then he can go for it. I won’t say no to a voluntary one-man army.”

Percival smirked. “He’s suddenly quite handsy with Maleficent, I’ve noticed.”

“Says the man who regularly gets a leg over Shrike.” Phillip shot back, mirroring Percival’s smirk and raising his eyebrows for good measure. He still found it remarkable that the man had taken up with the fierce Dark Fey woman – Percival had always been so mistrustful of their magical neighbours – but he had to admit that he had never seen his friend happier than he had been that past year.

“It’s generally the other way around,” the captain of the guard replied, drifting into a dreamy smile as his eyes suddenly glazed over, “God, she’s incredible. The things that she can do with her-”

“Stop right there, Perce, before you share anything that I’ll regret.” Phillip said, holding up a hand in protest. No doubt Shrike was every bit as masterful in the bedchamber as she was in the sky – she knew exactly what she wanted and had no qualms about getting it – but he had no desire to hear the sordid details, if only because he did not need that particular mental image sneaking up on him at inopportune moments, such as during meetings with foreign envoys or midway through supper with his wife.

Percival chuckled and winked at the prince, tapping the side of his nose with a finger. “All I’m saying is that I completely understand Borra’s attraction. Dark Fey women are something else. And you can’t deny that Maleficent is stunning. _Scary_ ,” he muttered, “Bloody scary. But stunning.”

Phillip pursed his lips and said nothing. Percival peered at him suspiciously, studying his expression in the scrupulous way that he did. After fifteen years of friendship, the man could read him like a book.

“Penny for your thoughts, Your Highness?”

For a moment, Phillip dithered, wondering how those thoughts would be received. Gossip was not a pastime that he often bothered indulging in, and the captain of the guard was generally even less tolerant of it. Finally, he capitulated, leaning closer to Percival and lowering his voice as he admitted, “I have a vested interest in that blossoming relationship – or, more to the point, in the _end_ of that blossoming relationship.”

Percival eyed him doubtfully. “That’s kind of you. Wouldn’t your life be easier if your terrifyingly overprotective mother-in-law were a bit happier – and occupied by someone who isn’t your wife?”

“Percival.” Phillip said, stopping at the bottom of another flight of stairs and turning to face the captain of his guard, “Maleficent is formidable, but she loves Aurora desperately, and I take comfort in knowing that there is someone watching over her and keeping her from harm. And you do get used to her. I dare say I’ve become rather fond of her, truth be told. She has a wicked sense of humour.”

“Really?”

“Really. You have to pay attention, though; sometimes she is as dry as a desert and it isn’t quite clear if she’s making a joke or intending to kill you.” he grinned, jovially patting Percival on the shoulder as the other man’s eyes widened, “Regardless, I know for a fact that there is someone else who is a far better match, who also happens to hold quite the candle for her. I consider that someone to be a good friend, and I want to see him happy. I want to see them both happy, especially after all that they have done for us.”

“The bird man?”

“His name is Diaval. Yes.”

“Just because he’d like some Dark Fey loving doesn’t mean that she’s interested.” Percival said, “And I’m sure that the last thing he wants to do is get on her bad side. Might end up being the last thing he _ever_ does.”

“See, I think that she is interested. She looks at him the way that Aurora looks at me, though I don’t think she realises what she’s doing.” Phillip replied, “But I’m not thrilled about this Borra development either way. He’s… volatile. I think he would be a great asset in battle, but I find myself struggling to read him. It’s disconcerting.”

“He’s a warrior, first and foremost. They all seem to be – the ones that look like him, those sandy-coloured Fey. Desert Fey, that’s what Shrike calls them, Desert Fey. She’s a warrior as well, but it seems as though all of his kind are that way.”

“He helped to rescue my son and is still behaving protectively. Whether that is to do with Maleficent or whether it is merely his nature, I cannot say, but I do know that I want to keep him on our side. I would not want to face an angry Borra.”

“So you say nothing. Leave them to it.” Percival said.

Phillip’s face twisted in indecision. “Saying nothing may work out to be the greater of two evils.”

“I’m sure I’ve told you before to avoid becoming involved in faerie politics.” Percival sighed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head despairingly at the prince.

“Once or twice.” Phillip muttered, “But it’s different when they’re family.”

“Meddling in _family_ politics is even worse. Your choice, though – you’re the heir apparent, after all, it’s not as though I can tell you what to do. Just don’t come crying to me when Maleficent turns you into a goose because you tried to play matchmaker.”

Phillip rolled his eyes and made for the stairs. “Noted,” he called over his shoulder, “No promises for if she turns me into another animal, though.”

Percival’s laughter followed him all the way up the stairs until the man was well out of sight.

* * *

The north side of the castle, given over to the menial roles of the servants and the external requirements of their daily tasks, had failed to bear fruit in the form of a gruff, prickly Dark Fey. The laundry maids had forgotten to retrieve several sets of linen bedsheets from where they had been strung up on the long outdoor lines – or perhaps they had simply thrown up their hands in defeat as the storm rolled in and made for their quarters with a hot cup of tea – and they flapped wildly about Diaval’s head, slapping together wetly. He flinched, momentarily forgetting that he was in his man-shape, and therefore at little risk of injury from the flailing fabric, but he gave the sheets a wide berth nonetheless.

Hefting the sword, he slowly made his way around the castle, closer to the Moors – not that he could see them especially well, what with the wind whipping dirt and dust into the air to mix with the heavy moisture in the clouds, then dropping it back down upon him in muddy splatters of intermittent rain.

He stared into the gloom, certain that he could see the top of an Ent's head among the undulating treetops in the near distance, though in the low visibility he could not tell who it was. It seemed that the tree guardians had not yet been withdrawn from the borders, despite both Udo and Shrike returning to the Moors the day before. Diaval was unsure as to the reasoning behind keeping the Ents and the warrior Fey on alert, considering that Wilfred had been returned safe and well and the threat of the Warlock had been neutralised, and it made him feel vaguely uneasy.

His ears pricked up at the sound of wingbeats through the howl of the wind and the sporadic spray of the rain. Diaval shielded his eyes with the back of his hand and peered upward toward the swirling mass of angry cloud above him, raking his gaze across the nearby sky in search of a massive pair of wings, but saw nobody. A bolt of eerie green lightning flashed across the clouds above him, illuminating the castle with an unnerving otherworldly glow. It had barely begun to fade when an ear-splitting roll of thunder followed, breaking across Ulstead like a physical blow. Diaval could feel the reverberations through to his bones; he hunched over reflexively, his bird instincts warning him to make himself as small as possible in the face of an unknown threat.

As the thunder growled its last and faded away, he heard the throb of wings once more – louder and clearer this time. Diaval raised himself up again, refusing to be caught cowering from something as innocuous as thunder – irrespective of how dangerous it seemed to his bird self. He pulled the sword in front of him, grazing the very tip in the gravel at his feet.

“What in the name of the ancient gods are you doing with _that_?” drawled the very person that Diaval had sought. Borra landed deftly in front of him as though his presence had been expected – close enough that he could be heard over the wind, but still far enough away to be clear of any uncertain swipes of the sword. His bare feet squelched in the wet dirt and the wind tore at his feathers, but he hardly seemed to notice. Instead, he merely eyed Diaval as one might a wilful child.

The raven man stared the Desert Fey down, refusing to be intimidated. Borra stood before him with his arms folded against his chest, his biceps bulging with raw power and unrivalled strength. His sneer had an undercurrent of doubt, as though he genuinely could not fathom why a raven wearing the shape of a man was all but dragging a sword through an extravagant castle garden in the middle of a tempest.

Diaval had to concede that he may have had a point, there.

Borra parted his lips in an exaggerated gesture of realisation. “Ah, no, don’t tell me – Maleficent has told you of our plan to mate. I see that you are taking the news well.” he said snidely. “Are you going to duel me, little birdie? Surely you aren’t _that_ stupid.”

“I’m not goin’ to duel you, Borra.”

“No? Not going to fight for your Mistress? Not going to prove your worth?” the Desert Fey jabbed. “I’m disappointed in you, raven.”

Diaval bit back the urge to swing the sword and lop the smarmy creature’s head from his shoulders. He glared at Borra, hating him more in that moment than he had ever hated another being – excepting Stefan, of course, who would forever be the only person for whom he would willingly walk through fire in order to stab in the face. Stefan was dead, though, and Borra very much alive.

Alive, and on the verge of mating the love of Diaval’s life.

He had to speak his piece, before Borra decided to attack him arbitrarily and he lost his chance forever. The Desert Fey would undoubtedly mock him – not just now, but for years to come – but Diaval felt that being made fun of was a small price to pay for Maleficent’s safety. Nothing in the world was more important than what he now needed to do.

He set his jaw, looking directly into Borra’s golden eyes – now narrowed in derision – and firmly gripped the hilt of the sword. Ravens were not natural fighters beyond what was necessary to defend their territory and their kin, but it would be remiss of him to ignore the obvious threat in Borra’s intense gaze.

But he could be courageous.

For her, he could be _anything_.

Taking a deep breath and mustering a reserve of bravery that he hardly knew that he possessed, Diaval rasped, “I’m _not_ worthy of her. But neither are _you_. Nobody is worthy of someone so kind and clever and incredible, even if she doesn’t think herself so.”

Borra rolled his eyes to the heavens but did not contradict him. Perhaps there _was_ some hope of getting through.

Emboldened, Diaval continued, “But I’m here to tell you, you look upon the gift that she’s givin’ you as the amazin’ and precious thing that it is. _Don’t_ take her for granted. Because this here?” he said, gesturing at the sword which still trailed in the dust, “It’s made of solid iron. It’s big, it’s heavy, and I have no idea what I’m doin’ with it. But if you ever, ever hurt her, I’m going to find you, and _I’m goin’ to use it on you_.”

Borra snorted. “Maleficent does not need the likes of you to protect her. Look at yourself – you can’t even lift that thing properly.”

“Of course she can protect herself.” Diaval scoffed, “She’s probably _too_ good at protectin’ herself. That’s why we’re standin’ here, havin’ this conversation – because she thinks that she can protect herself from _you_. But she shouldn’t have to even be _considerin’_ that, and that’s what I’m tryin’ to say. You do right by her. Don’t give her a reason to mistrust you, and you won’t give me a reason to use this.” He inclined his head roughly toward the iron sword.

“Use it how? By slicing my feet a bit?”

Glaring at the man before him, Diaval hefted the sword aloft. He strained with the effort – it was very heavy, and he was not trained as a soldier, his strength lying in endurance and agility rather than brute force – but managed to point it, wavering, at Borra’s face. To his surprise, he registered a fleeting moment of shock on the Desert Fey’s cragged face.

“When it comes to Maleficent, I’ll find a way. I don’t want to hurt you – it’s not in me to want such a thing – but I’ll do a bit of damage to you if I have to. If you hurt her. She’s promised herself to you, but that doesn’t change anythin’ for me.” 

It was not true, not in the slightest. His soul was in agony, cursed to burn eternally by the gods of the forgotten past, his heart shattering like a crystal goblet fallen upon unforgiving stone. Nothing would ever be right with the world again – a world in which he would have to watch his love suffer needlessly and fall once again.

Borra did not need to know that, though, and to confess it to him would only weaken his resolve. Diaval widened his stance surreptitiously, willing his body to stop trembling under the weight of the sword. Weakness was not an option – Borra had to understand that he was completely serious.

“I won’t see her hurt again. I just want her to be happy. She deserves that much. But more than anythin’, I want her to feel _safe_.” Diaval finally lowered the weapon, ignoring his protesting muscles, and took a steadying breath. “She chose you because she sees you as a safe option. She was hurt terribly once, by someone she loved – someone who claimed to love her. Maybe he even did, just a bit, but not enough to keep from almost destroyin’ her for his own gains. She thinks that love is a weakness that leads to hurt. She’s got it all backwards, mind, and I tried to tell her that, but she wasn’t listenin’.”

Borra regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, his eyes widening slightly as he made the connection. “The human king. The father of the one she calls daughter.”

“Yes. _Him_.” Diaval seethed, baring his teeth at the memory of the one who had violated his Mistress and set her down her destructive path of darkness, “The only good thing that ever came out of that man was Aurora, and all he did there was start her. There’s nothin’ of him in her, thankfully. But Stefan was a _fool_.” he rasped with absolute conviction, “He had the greatest gift on this earth – Maleficent’s love – and he threw it away like it was nothin’. He was an utter fool. He had everythin’. _Everythin’_.”

That foolish bastard Stefan, dead all these years, but still very deserving of a swift kick in the face. It was one of the deepest regrets of Diaval’s life that he hadn’t managed to singe the Perceforest king more thoroughly that fateful night in the tower; the night that he first saw Maleficent _fly_.

Returning his attention to Borra, Diaval ploughed on, refusing to be held back by fear or propriety any longer. “You’re the one she has chosen as a mate because she doesn’t love you, so you can’t break her heart. Maybe even more importantly, _you don’t love her_. Not like Stefan claimed to have done.”

“How could you know that? Perhaps I do love her.” Borra countered indignantly. His face had twisted into a strange sort of scowl which hovered somewhere between relief and belligerence, as though Diaval’s words had not so much revealed Maleficent’s truth as they had his own.

“Because it’s true, Borra, and you can’t stand there and tell me otherwise. You _desire_ her, and I don’t blame you for that, not at all, but you don’t _love_ her, not yet. Maybe not ever, and that’s what makes you seem safe to her. She has this twisted idea that someone who doesn’t love her won’t hurt her. But had Stefan really loved her, he would never have done what he did. You don’t _mutilate_ the ones you love.” Diaval sighed sadly, “Maleficent doesn’t see it that way.”

The Desert Fey considered him for a long moment. Had Diaval not known any better, he would have read Borra’s expression as _pity_. He found the intensity of the other man’s gaze extremely unnerving, as though Borra was slowly trawling through the golden threads of his memory and painstakingly examining all that he found there.

“You love her.” he said finally. His tone was about as empathetic as Diaval had ever heard him use. The raven man bit the inside of his lower lip to keep it from trembling.

“My feelin’s aren’t what’s important here.” he replied at last, though it all but killed him to speak the words aloud, “Maleficent has made her choice, and I’m not so bold or arrogant as to try to force myself on her if she doesn’t want me. Her heart and mind and body are her own, to bestow or not as she sees fit.” He paused, blinking rapidly, “But I swore, long ago, that she would have whatever she needs from me, and right now, whether she realises it or not, what she needs is for me to tell you outright that I’ll be watchin’ you. Always. And if you ever hurt her in any way – then I will use this sword on you. I won’t even feel a passin’ guilt about it.”

Again, Borra did not respond immediately, instead continuing to scrutinise Diaval to the point of extreme discomfort. Diaval forced himself to stare back, refusing to allow the Desert Fey to intimidate him. It occurred to him that there was little standing in the way of Borra snapping his neck in his sleep, save for Maleficent, but he could not dwell upon the potential repercussions of his audacity in confronting the Desert Fey.

Though Diaval had expected to be taunted at best – and attacked at worst – Borra did neither. There was something in his jewel-like faerie eyes which betrayed tacit understanding and, astonishingly, grudging respect. Diaval had a sudden impression that the Desert Fey had understood far more than he had been explicitly told.

At last, Borra replied, “You’ve given me a lot to think about – and I give you my word, I _will_ think about it. Perhaps, for the moment, though, you had better go inside before this storm becomes any worse and put that sword away before you hurt yourself. Somewhere safe… where you will be able to find it easily again, if that makes you feel any better. But rav– _Diaval_ – I would never hurt her, not in the way you imagine. I give you my word on that.”

With that, Borra spread his wings and leapt into the tumultuous air again, leaving the raven man watching from below with the iron sword clasped limply in his hand, the sharp tip still scraping in the dirt. 

* * *

“What do we _do_ with him?” Aurora asked, flinging Lickspittle’s journal clear across the room in disgust. “We have no real grounds for keeping him confined, but if we let him go, how can we know that he won’t start ‘experimenting’ again?”

“Buh- _guh_!” Wilfred exclaimed emphatically from where he lay on a pile of blankets on the floor. He had the wooden wyvern clenched in both chubby hands and was gnawing madly on its head. Aurora smiled down at her precious boy. It still amazed her that she could have made such a wonderful little creature, but there lay the evidence before her, kicking his legs madly as he slobbered all over his toy.

Alive. Well. _Safe_.

She wondered if there would come a time in which she no longer welled up at the thought of him.

“I could put him to work here at the castle.” King John suggested, unaware of her reverie, “Keep him within sight and as busy as possible. He did mention a knowledge of medicinal herbs – he may prove useful. We would just need to keep him well away from Ingrith.” he muttered, trailing off.

“He would need to be well supervised.” Maleficent reminded him archly, “For he has proven without a doubt that he cannot be trusted alone.” Her eyes suddenly flicked away from the king to follow the path of the wyvern as Wilfred suddenly tossed it to his left. It bounced once before coming to rest on the floorboards in a puddle of baby drool.

Wilfred’s little face crumpled.

“None of that.” Maleficent told him sternly, “You threw it, so you cannot very well have a cry about it. Go and get it if you want it so badly.”

Startled from the beginnings of what might have been a spectacular tantrum by his grandmother’s tone, the baby stared up at her in surprise. The corners of Maleficent’s mouth twitched slightly as the dramatic iridescence of her eyes caught his attention, and he gazed into them, captivated. Exploiting his fascination, she glanced purposefully toward the toy and back again expectantly.

“He’s only a baby, Mother. He doesn’t understand.” Aurora admonished, “And he certainly cannot ‘go and get it’, can he?” Honestly, what did Maleficent think that a baby, not yet three months old, was capable of? Perhaps Dark Fey babies developed faster – although, Aurora thought, her mother probably did not know all that many Dark Fey babies from which to draw a conclusion.

Maleficent raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you certain?” She nodded toward Wilfred, who had started swinging his arms and legs back and forth, his eyes intensely focused on the wyvern that was just out of his reach. He managed to roll onto his side and stopped for a moment, dropping his head down onto the blankets as though the manoeuvre had exhausted him entirely.

Aurora eyed Maleficent sardonically, though she was quietly impressed with her son’s efforts. “You’re an expert on children now?”

“I am an expert on especially _beastly_ children.” the Dark Fey countered, “Having all but raised one of them.”

 _With the help of a particularly paternal raven_ , Aurora thought. Her expression darkened as her mind quickly segued from her faerie mother to her raven father. “Where is Diaval?” she asked pointedly, staring at Maleficent in veiled accusation. Her mother looked away.

Blinked slowly for a moment as she stared at the window to the squall outside, Maleficent’s face rapidly became an inscrutable mask. “I do not know.”

Aurora wanted to scream. How could two beings who were so clever be so utterly, thoroughly, _completely_ stupid? Surely Diaval’s disappearance was of concern to Maleficent – it had been hours since he had left her bedchamber, and he had not been seen since.

She ignored the tiny voice in the recesses of her mind which clamoured all too loudly in genuine fear of what her father might do, broken-hearted as he was.

“We should look for him.” she insisted. “You may not be worried about him, but I am.”

“He is quite capable of taking care of himself, Beastie. And I never said that I was not worried about him, but he is generally a rational creature. He is unlikely to be doing anything more than raiding the castle kitchen.” She pulled her wings in close and began to idly stroke her feathers with her fingertips, the way that she often caressed Diaval in his raven form. It was a comfort, Aurora realised, a sort of self-soothing, and something which had been denied Maleficent for seventeen long years.

Still, she could not help but glare at her mother as she reminded her, “He’s _upset_.”

Why was she doing this? She had all but admitted that she could not live without him, but the shutters had once again been drawn, the walls reinforced around her heart, and the frank and meaningful discussion between them hours earlier seemed all but forgotten. It was as though Maleficent had thought about her bedside confession and had made a conscious decision to choose the path that would hurt everyone the most.

“Why is he upset?” John asked, frowning, “Is he a danger to himself? Should I send some of the guards to find him?”

“No.” Maleficent replied quickly. Her fingers began to move faster through her feathers.

“He is upset,” Aurora fumed, “Because Mother plans to mate Borra, despite the obvious and indisputable fact that Diaval is hopelessly in love with her, and she with him.”

“Aurora-”

“Why would you do that?” John asked Maleficent. His confusion was almost comical, had Aurora felt like laughing. “I would have thought it would be an obvious choice to marry for mutual love. If faeries marry. Do faeries marry?”

“Oh _look_ ,” Maleficent enunciated with exaggerated interest, obviously trying to redirect their attention from her, “Wilfred has rolled onto his stomach. What a clever little beast he is.”

“ _Mother_.”

Maleficent’s eyes flashed green as she rounded on her daughter. “Celebrate your son’s achievement, Aurora, and leave me be. I will go and find Diaval, if you are that concerned for his welfare, though I have no doubt that he is quite well and merely sulking somewhere, as he is wont to do.” The Dark Fey drew herself up to her full height and scowled, “But I must insist that you leave the subject of my intended mating and Diaval’s overly emotional response to it be as well. You cannot possibly know his feelings as a matter of certainty, and mine are…” she paused, trying to think of the correct word, “Irrelevant. Betraying. _Ignorable_.”

With that, she swept from Aurora’s bedchamber, shutting the door behind her with rather more force than was strictly necessary.

Aurora closed her eyes and sighed. Seldom had she been so bitterly disappointed in her mother, but her obstinance regarding a choice which seemed blindingly obvious to everyone on the planet except herself hurt far more than the Moorland queen had expected it to.

“Have faith, Aurora.” John murmured kindly, “Things have a way of working out. You’ll see.”

He knelt beside his grandson, who had pushed up on his sturdy arms and was swaying to one side. As though in slow motion, the boy tipped over and rolled onto his back again. Closer now, he squealed and reached out wildly toward the wyvern, managing to snag it by the very end of its tail. In a matter of seconds, it was back in his mouth.

“Mama will see, won’t she little fellow?” John said, smiling down at Wilfred.

* * *

Where in the blazes was that raven?

Maleficent stalked down yet another dimly lit hallway – _why_ did humans need so much space in which to live? – scowling fiercely at the wall tapestries as though they had deliberately conspired to hide Diaval from her. The strange chartreuse lightning which intermittently lit them up did not help to dissuade her from such a theory.

She had searched most of the upper wings of the castle, throwing open doors to suites intended for foreign dignitaries and the private quarters of the royal family alike without warning or preamble – or indeed, concern for whether or not she had any right to do so. Thus far, she had managed to immobilise a middle-aged housemaid with her menacing mien alone, appearing from around a corner as the woman was changing a set of curtains, caused an apprentice chimney-sweep who could not have counted more than ten years (assuming that the boy was able to count at all) to shriek in terror and scramble fifteen feet up the nearest chimney as his master bellowed at him to _make room_ , and scared the living daylights out of a pair of footmen who were locked in a salacious embrace in one of the smaller guest chambers.

She had not, however, located Diaval.

Surely he had not left the castle? With the storm outside developing at an alarming rate, Maleficent could not believe that he would try to walk back to the Moors. Though the castle was situated adjacent to the river which provided a natural border between the kingdoms, it was a considerable distance to their nest from the Moorland bank. On foot, it would take Diaval several hours to walk home, and it was becoming downright dangerous out there.

She refused to entertain the nasty, intrusive thought that he may have left entirely, never to return. He would never give up his wings for a pair of arms and a smart mouth, she reasoned, and so he could not have disappeared into the tempest forever. He would find her again, if only to ask her to give him back his feathers.

Maleficent could see his eyes, dark and enormous and glistening with barely contained grief, in her mind’s eye. He would hold her gaze, though it would pain him terribly to do so, and request the return of his wings so that he might move on from his time with her in his true form – to seek his future someplace far from the Moors, wherever the softly scented summer breezes may take him. A future with a pretty mate who loved him dearly, darling hatchlings squawking joyfully at their doting papa. The poignant formality in the sweet lilt of his rasping voice would all but shatter her.

She would grant his request, though, because for all that her reputation branded her the Mistress of All Evil, she could not deny him such a thing, even knowing that it would break her. Though she would never recover from his absence, she would let him go, and clutch the memory of his presence in her life close to her heart; a hoarded dragon’s jewel, the secret memory of a love that could never be acknowledged.

Above all else, she could not allow herself to indulge in ridiculous fantasies of finding Diaval hiding in one of these stately rooms and simply baring her soul to him. She could not permit that train of thought to extend to him whispering his own confessions of deep, unrequited love, and allowing him to draw her down upon the plush coverlet and into the embrace of her velvet feathers; her voice, low and breathless, asking him to stay with her, be with her always, love her in life and beyond death.

No! The ridiculous fantasies had to stop. He loved her only as a friend might love another, and nothing more. He certainly did _not_ desire her as a mate – indeed, he did not desire to mate with her at all, formal union or otherwise – and no amount of lecherous daydreaming would change that. His man-shape was probably at odds with his instincts, for ravens mated quite differently to Fey; though their minds had bonded as though they were two halves of a far greater whole, irrespective of their species, the same could not be said for the urges of his body. He would want a she-raven, of course. The raw carnality of mating in a man-shape would likely revolt him.

Borra remained the logical choice. He would not be revolted by her Dark Fey body, if nothing else, and once he had seen fit to provide her with an heir, it hardly mattered anyway. If he tried to harm her, she would simply kill him.

She could probably even make it look like an accident.

Maleficent reached the bottom of the stairs and found herself in the annex to the throne room, which allowed the royal family access from their private quarters. There was little else in the room but a ghastly painting of a bear, a wolf and a boar disembowelling a unicorn stallion, lying on its side in a pool of silvery blood and surrounded by pieces of its own innards. The artist had perfectly portrayed the unbearable agony in the poor creature’s equine eyes; wild and terrified, they appeared to stare straight into Maleficent’s very soul, begging for help – or perhaps, for death.

She found herself involuntarily baring her fangs at the expressions of glee on the faces of the other beasts. Though portrayed in their natural forms, each animal possessed a single human hand wielding an axe, the dull grey colour a silent testament to their being forged of iron. The brassy gold paint which had been liberally applied to the carved wooden frame only served to emphasise the brutality of the subject.

It would not take any great effort for her to rid the world of the monstrosity entirely. No effort at all, really. Just a tiny twitch of a finger and it would be as though the evil thing had never existed.

It hardly mattered if the humans knew that she was responsible for the occasional spot of wanton destruction about the castle – none would dare to confront her over it, in any case – but Maleficent quickly glanced about the room in search of witnesses nonetheless. There was nobody in the small annex, nor descending the stairs, but one of the large doors leading into the throne room was slightly ajar.

Frowning, Maleficent crossed the annex in a handful of long strides and pulled the door open, revealing the Ulsteadan throne room behind it. It was a large room, though not as ostentatious as the aesthetic disaster that Stefan had presided over in Perceforest during his tenure as the worst king in recorded history. Two large thrones, decorated with elaborate gold filigree and upholstered in deep red, dominated the dais at one end of the room, whilst the opposite end housed a pair of magnificent doors which nearly reached the ceiling. Around the walls of the room stood numerous suits of armour, spaced at intervals – _iron_ armour, which explained the loathsome stench permeating the entire room. It was the armour of past kings, Maleficent realised, standing guard over their descendants from beyond the grave; a battalion of uninvited spectres who could not quite accept that they were dead.

Hunched by one such spectre, fiddling suspiciously with the scabbard at its waist, was Diaval.

“ _Where. Have. You. Been_?” Maleficent snarled, suddenly seized with an irrational feeling of rage. Had he been hiding in the throne room the entire time that he had been missing? It had been _hours_ and not a sign of him – how dare he go worrying everyone, making them think that he had abandoned them?

That he had abandoned _her_?

“Have you been cowering in this vile-smelling room these past hours? What are you doing to that armour?” she hissed.

Diaval held up his hands in supplication. “I’ve only been here a few minutes. Been wanderin’ around the castle, mostly. Thinkin'. Tryin' _not_ to think. I ran into Borra – we had a bit of a chat, came to an understanding, but then he flew off to play dodge-the-lightnin’, and I came in here.”

“For what purpose? Diaval, you _stink_.”

He frowned at her. “I know you’re not happy with me disagreein’ with you matin’ Borra, but that’s a bit uncalled for.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “No, you foolish creature, you actually stink. You reek of iron. Where have you been?”

“I found Ingrith’s iron foundry under the castle. It’s abandoned, but the smell of iron is still really strong. You couldn’t have gone in there at all, you would have been on the floor screamin’ and burnin’ like a lamb on a spit in seconds. But that’s where I found this,” Diaval said, patting the pommel of the armour’s sword proudly.

It suddenly occurred to Maleficent that none of the other suits of armour had swords. A wise choice, considering that it would take little for a disgruntled petitioner to assassinate a king if weapons were more readily available.

“You found a sword.”

“An _iron_ sword.”

Maleficent eyed him warily. It seemed rather out of character for Diaval to be so pleased to have found something cast of iron, knowing her inherent weakness to it. It was like Aurora delighting in blowing dandelion seeds in Phillip’s face to set off his hayfever. “What possible use could you have for an iron sword?”

Diaval hesitated, regarding her with a certain quiet confidence that set her nerves on edge. “I had a use for it. Now I’m storin’ it in case I ever have another.” he replied, telling her precisely nothing. His circumspect response alarmed her even further. What on Earth had he done?

A sudden, quite ridiculous thought occurred to Maleficent, though she felt her heart leap strangely in her chest at the idea. She could feel her covert feathers beginning to stand on end, puffing up like a rich woman’s fur cloak, though whether from fear or excitement she could not be certain. 

It was lunacy to even entertain such a suspicion. He killed for food, and though she suspected that he would not hold back in the defence of his loved ones, Diaval did not have it in him to murder in cold blood. She could not believe such a thing of him. He was the kindest, gentlest creature that she had ever known.

Still, she had to ask, if only to assuage the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach; that tiny, almost imperceptible part of her that recognised that for all the tenderness in his soul, he was still at present a human male, with all of the jealous impulses that came with that form.

“Did you kill Borra?”

Diaval stared at her, and for a moment, Maleficent almost – _almost_ – believed that he _had_ slain the Desert Fey. An incredulous grin slowly crept across his face, followed by a hoot of laughter which rapidly cascaded into hysterics.

“I fail to see what is so funny – did you kill him or not?”

The raven man was bent double, clutching his belly and snorting with each gasping intake of breath. He wiped a tear from his eye as he responded, “D’you really think that the likes of me could do away with the likes of him, even with an iron sword? He’d snap me in two, Mistress. I can’t believe you even asked that. Gods… thanks for the laugh, though, I needed a good giggle after the rest of this day.”

“I should turn you into a dust mite.” Maleficent muttered, “What did you do with the sword, then, if not making a filet of my intended?”

Diaval sobered almost instantaneously, leaving Maleficent feeling vaguely guilty, though she could not pinpoint precisely why.

“I did somethin’ that I felt needed to be done. You don’t need to go worryin’ about it. I haven’t hurt anyone, and with any luck, I’ll never have to.”

They stared stubbornly at each other for several long seconds, neither willing to concede; she wanting to know exactly what he had done and why he was being so cagey about telling her, and he because he clearly had absolutely no intention of disclosing a thing.

Finally, Maleficent had to admit to herself that engaging in a staring contest with a bird would always be a losing battle, if only because Diaval could go a ridiculous amount of time without blinking, even in his human form. She huffed at him, glaring.

“Fine, don’t tell me.”

“I won’t.” he replied, his mouth crooking into one of his more charming smiles.

They seemed to be not having rather a lot of conversations lately, Maleficent mused. Her plans with Borra had driven a wedge into their friendship which was far larger than she had anticipated it being. Diaval clearly felt as though he was being ousted – usurped, even, as the primary male in her life – and his raven sensibilities were deeply offended. Not unrequited love, of course, chafing under the threat of losing her – that was a ridiculous notion, and she quashed it as soon as it presented itself as a possibility – but she could not deny that he had been her only male companion for so long that it was inevitable that he would feel somewhat territorial about the sudden presence of another. Ravenness again, defending what his nature deemed his. He was only doing what his instincts demanded of him.

Then, of course, there were her unacknowledged and altogether far too inconvenient… well, she was not going there, so giving those thoughts the power of a name was simply not going to happen. Let them find a home in her dreams, where she did not have to hold back for fear of rejection; a place where a raven might love a Fey, and a Fey might know peace instead of fear. 

She could not allow herself to dwell upon what could never be.

Though there was a lot which they needed to say to each other, she could not find it within herself to begin such a conversation, not knowing just where it would finish. It was better – safer – to leave everything as it was, rather than take the risk of becoming irretrievably estranged.

Definitely. It was definitely far more sensible to stay silent on the matter.

“Come on then.” Maleficent groused, “I was looking for potential witnesses in here, but you hardly count.”

“Lovely.”

“There is something in the next room which is nothing short of disgusting, and I intend to dispose of it as thoroughly as possible.”

Diaval squinted thoughtfully. “That horrible painting of the beasts killin’ the unicorn?”

“The very one.”

“I suppose Ingrith already hates you anyway.” Diaval commented with a shrug, standing by the door and ushering her through it before him. “I saw that when I came through here before. Aurora must not know anythin’ about it – she’d have gotten rid of it, hidden it down in the dungeon or somethin’, otherwise.”

“It probably _is_ Ingrith’s doing, come to think of it.”

“I’d say it definitely is,” Diaval replied, gesturing to the painting as it came into view, “Look at the animals.”

“A bear, a wolf, a boar and a unicorn.”

“Exactly.” The raven man pointed to the bear. “That’s King Hroáldr.”

“He had a bear on his crest.” Maleficent recalled darkly.

Diaval nodded, dropping his hand to indicate the wolf. “Prince Fritjof, and,” he pointed at the boar, “I’m guessin’ that a certain goat queen has a boar somewhere in her personal heraldry. The three of them, slayin’ a mystical beast together. Human hands wieldin’ axes. It’s drawn straight from their crests and turned into a statement about their family’s triumph over everythin’ magical.”

“The woman is even more fiendish than I had realised.”

Diaval regarded her doubtfully. “I’m not surprised by it, honestly. This is the woman who had us served spatchcock for dinner, knowin’ perfectly well that I’m a raven and you’re a winged faerie who sleeps in a nest. Phillip told her as much before we arrived – I asked him a few days after the weddin’. If that wasn’t well-considered passive aggression, then I’m a bloody swan.”

“Well, then,” Maleficent said, raising her hands with the first two fingers of each outstretched, “All the more reason to rid the world of such an ugly thing. You had best stand back, unless you wish to wind up like the passive-aggressive spatchcock.”

Diaval’s eyebrow twitched slightly, but he quickly moved to stand by her side without a word.

Maleficent considered the painting carefully, her head tilted slightly and her mutable eyes deepening to emerald, as they tended to do when she found herself contemplating any sort of destructive mischief. Finally, she reached a decision, and slowly extended a single finger to the raised daubs in the centre of the boar’s head.

She was aware of Diaval jumping slightly beside her as the boar ignited in a burst of green flame beneath her fingertip. Taking a step back, Maleficent carefully stoked and coaxed her little fire, encouraging it to consume every part of the canvas and frame whilst leaving the wall behind them unharmed. The flame changed colour as it devoured the multitude of different pigments, flaring red and blue and purple among the vivid green.

“It’s quite pretty now.” Diaval commented, folding his arms over his chest and inspecting the burning painting with the conversance of a professional artist. “I like the way that you’ve balanced the flame colours. Very aesthetically pleasing.”

Maleficent rolled her eyes. 

Within a few more minutes the painting had all but burned to charcoal, leaving only the garish wooden frame. Pursing her lips, Maleficent sent a burst of energy toward her magical fire, which roared in delight. The frame disintegrated in a matter of seconds, dropping onto the floor in a pile of ash. All that was left of the painting was a large rectangular scorch mark on the stone wall.

Diaval looked impressed. “That probably took months to paint, you know. And you’ve turned it to ash in a matter of minutes. Have I ever told you that you’re kind of amazin’…?”

His words died in his throat as the floor beneath them began to tremble as though in terror, followed swiftly by a low rumble. He looked at Maleficent in alarm, as though expecting her to have an explanation, but she was as bewildered as he.

Lasting too long to be thunder, the rumble steadily became louder, almost to the point of pain. Maleficent wondered if it could be an earthquake, but having experienced them a few times during her childhood, she could not be certain. It did not feel the same as a natural shaking of the earth. It felt as though it were building to something greater.

Just as Maleficent had resolved to steady her nerves and go outside to investigate, the rumble reached a crescendo and _exploded_.

She tumbled to the floor in a flurry of feathers as the world lurched, landing hard on Diaval and winding the poor creature. The blast reverberated through the stone walls of the castle, sending showers of dust raining down upon them from the fractured mortar above, and for a fleeting moment, Maleficent genuinely feared that the entire structure might come down and crush everyone within. Her heart hammering, she spread her wings over her gasping raven and prepared to cast a shield of magic, but almost as soon as it had begun, the explosion petered into nothingness. It was over.

Screams and cries rang out from all over the castle like a choir of tortured souls in the thrall of a demon, echoing down the stairs to the throne room annex. From the tone of some of the cries, it was clear that there had been a number of injuries – perhaps even fatalities, considering the wild nature of one scream in particular – but most were the howls of simple people who were frightened out of their minds. Maleficent could not attend to the humans, however – not even her Beastie, who she prayed was safe with her family higher up in the castle – when her presence was likely needed outside, at the source of whatever it was that had just happened.

She and Diaval carefully picked themselves up from the floor, quickly checking each other for serious injuries. A livid bruise was already beginning to bloom across Diaval’s cheek where it had connected with the solid base of Maleficent’s horn; he was deeply fortunate that she had not been slightly further away from him, or that horn might have cost him his eye. He grimaced a little as she touched it, but the little puff of magic that she sent along with that touch set about healing the bruise immediately. Other than his one injury, they had both been remarkably fortunate.

“Outside. Now.” Maleficent commanded, hauling Diaval fully upright and dragging him back through the door into the throne room. Her feet barely touched the floor in her haste to reach the outer doors, which had swung open from the force of… whatever it was.

Crossing over the threshold into the castle grounds, Maleficent stopped dead in horror.

The garden was gone. Not a shrub or a statue remained between the throne room doors and the garden wall. Instead, a barren circle, black as pitch and smoking with the charred ruins of the garden, existed in its place. The gravelly sand of the walkways had liquified with the heat of the blast, and were rapidly resolidifying in the chill of the storm which raged all the more furiously, creating a shiny, glasslike stone right across the burn radius. In the centre of the circle, raised up from the molten earth and hardened in place was a smaller circular structure, almost like a table – or an altar. Glassy stone had dripped down the sides into stalactites around the circumference of it, but the top was perfectly level. Lightning flickered across the turbulent clouds above Ulstead and the stone altar appeared to luminesce in response.

Maleficent was dimly aware of Diaval inhaling sharply and taking off at a run to her right, but it barely registered. She knelt by the edge of the circle to examine it more closely.

A great eruption of magic had produced this. She knew of no power in nature which could have caused such destruction. She herself would have struggled to generate such explosive thermal magic, and she was the most powerful creature that she knew.

This was magic fed by anger. This was the sort of destructive magic that she could have indulged in when Stefan had betrayed her, had she been the sort to react without consideration for unnecessary collateral damage. Her revenge had been almost as ill-considered, but nowhere near as dangerous as this.

Diaval’s voice, laden with panic, rang out over the whipping wind from across the circle of cooling glass, “Mistress!”

Maleficent leapt into the air, bolting to where she could see him crouched beside a prone figure, their hand clutched in his own.

“It’s all right, you’re goin’ to be all right. The burns are healin’ already – they’re turnin’ pink around the edges. You’re goin’ to be fine.” he was babbling reassuringly as she landed beside him, “Mistress is here now. She’ll help you along, make it all heal faster. It’s all right now.”

He turned to her, his face as white as parchment and his eyes, brimming with empathetic tears, as wide as the moon at perigee. “He’s healin’ Mistress – the burns on his skin, at least. But his eyes…”

“Borra.” she whispered, “Oh gods.”

The Desert Fey lay in the dirt where he had landed, having clearly skidded across the garden with the force of the blast. Bits of gravel and debris were embedded deeply the skin along the left side of his body, and the entire front of his body was a variegation of reds and blacks, bubbling and blistering where the heat of the explosion had burned him where he stood. The insides of his wings were ruined, the feathers having all but disintegrated. The sensitive skin beneath them had been spared, however; his feathers had taken the brunt of the explosion. A great mercy – he would fly again, in time.

But the worst of his injuries were to his eyes.

Red-rimmed and sticky with the melted remains of his eyelashes, Borra’s eyes had obviously been open at the moment of the explosion. They had been flash-burned, and now gazed in milky blindness at nothing.

“Maleficent?” he croaked, “Is that you?”

“I am here, Borra. Lay still – I will do what I can. Diaval, please hold him. This is likely going to cause him great pain.” Maleficent said, hoping that her voice did not sound as tremulous to the ears of her companions as it did to her.

“Can you heal him?” Diaval asked anxiously. He shuffled closer to Borra and held the man’s head on his lap, the sharp horns jutting from between the ruined frizzles of singed hair against his side at an angle so that an unexpected jerk would not impale him like hay on a pitchfork.

She nodded. “I think so. His burns will heal themselves within a few hours, but I can help them along.”

“And his eyes?”

Maleficent hesitated. “I will try.”

She held her hands above Borra’s unseeing eyes and summoned her healing magic. Narrowing its focus, forcing it to leave his body be and mend his eyes alone, she willed it to undo the damage that the blast had caused.

“Maleficent, I have to tell you…” Borra groaned.

“Shh, Borra. It can wait.” More magic, and more again, but Maleficent was beginning to see results. The milky film at the front of his eyes was beginning to clear. The bright yellow of his irises was once again visible.

“No, it can’t…”

“Mistress will be done soon, Borra. I can see it workin’. You’ll be able to see again very soon.” Diaval reassured him. “It’s goin’ to be all right.”

At last, Maleficent saw what she had been waiting for – Borra’s pupils, dilated in his blindness, slowly began to contract, shrinking down as his eyes began to respond to the light once more. They dilated slightly again and he looked straight up at her, blinking rapidly.

“I can see you. I can see.” he panted, “Thank you.”

“Alas, we are not done yet.” Maleficent replied, turning her attention to the painful burns on his torso. Those should be far more straightforward to heal; indeed, his innate Dark Fey healing abilities were already beginning to fix the worst of them.

“No,” Borra said, reaching up and grasping her wrist to regain her attention, “I have to tell you…”

“Tell me what?”

Borra grimaced at a sudden shock of pain from the damaged nerves regenerating in his skin. He hissed, arching his back, and gripped Maleficent with even greater force. The fear in his eyes was not an emotion that she had ever expected to see. Bright green lightning reflected in them as he stared at her with terrible intensity, willing her to pay attention, to _listen_.

“He’s here.” Borra croaked, his voice cracking, “The Warlock. He’s alive, and he’s _here_.”


	25. Chapter 25

Maleficent had barely healed Borra to the minimum required to keep him from dying when she flicked her fingers toward Diaval without warning. “Into a Roc.”

He hardly registered her words before he felt her magic whirl within him, and he _grew_. In seconds, he was almost as massive as he had been in his dragon shape – but this time a bird, a body familiar to him, and so easy for him to become accustomed to in a hurry. He towered above his Mistress, looking down upon the leather wrap surrounding her horns with huge black eyes the size of the fancy glass dinner plates in the royal dining room. Each of his clawed feet was as long as one of her arms.

He bowed his head to allow Borra, still as pink as a newly born mouse pup but healed from the worst of his burns, to climb astride his great wings – the Desert Fey’s own wings all but useless without most of his feathers. Maleficent would undoubtedly hurry the regrowth along when she could, but time was of the essence, and even a flightless Borra could be useful in the meantime.

“I want you to guard Aurora and Wilfred,” Maleficent told them both earnestly, “See to it that nobody harms them. I will make a circuit of the castle and be there shortly.”

Diaval could not speak in the shape of a Roc, though he tried valiantly nonetheless. He managed to squeeze a strangled sort of ‘Ogh!’ noise from his syrinx, but it was a poor substitute for all that he wished to say.

_Please don’t try to fight him on your own._

_You saw what he did to Borra._

_Let me help. We can defeat him together._

_Be safe, be safe, be safe…_

_I love you._

“Take Borra to Aurora, Diaval. Stay there until I return.” She held up a finger barely an inch from the tip of his beak. “No heroics. I promise that I will not engage the Warlock alone, if that is what concerns you. I merely wish to know where he is so that we can plan our next move. Understood? Straight to Aurora’s chambers and no dangerous quests along the way.”

He should have known that she would know all that he had to say anyway.

Leaning forward, he gently bumped his enormous beak against her outstretched finger by way of agreement. In his raven form, he might have nibbled on it a bit, but the last thing that his Mistress needed right now was an accidental amputation to deal with because he had forgotten himself.

Maleficent took a step back as Diaval spread his mighty wings; some twenty feet in span between the tips of his primaries, they were far larger than any wings that he had ever known. He could feel the raw power in his massive flight muscles as he brought them down, the movement sending a gust of wind toward his Mistress. She squinted in the spray of airborne dust that he had kicked up and arched her own wings to use his gusty blast to take flight herself, lifting into the air as easily as parchment caught in a breeze.

Diaval wheeled around toward the castle, hearing Maleficent turn behind him in the opposite direction through the dying wind. Sustained by the Warlock’s rage, the storm was beginning to dissipate following his enormous release of power. Though the clouds still hung in ominous billows above Ulstead, the storm itself had clearly begun to wane.

Diaval flew swiftly to the tower terrace which jutted from Aurora’s rooms, to his little girl and her family, hoping against hope that the explosion had merely rattled them instead of stealing them away from the world without warning.

He landed on her balcony in a flash of déjà vu – had it only been a day since he had landed here in the shape of a cockatrice? – and rapped on the chamber door with his great beak. Borra slid smoothly from his back and peered through the glass. His eyes, still red-rimmed and sensitive, were clearly bothering him, though Diaval knew that the Desert Fey would never admit to such a thing. The dim interior of the castle was probably the best thing for him until the residual photophobia waned. He tapped on the window again, harder this time. A crack appeared in the pane, swiftly tracing a path from the impact of his beak to the upper corner. Oops.

Without a moment of warning, Aurora suddenly appeared from a blind spot beside the doors and threw them open, brandishing a fire-poker and wearing an expression of such wild ferocity that it might have frightened Maleficent herself. She swung the poker with brutal force at Diaval, apparently not recognising him in his new and unusual shape. He yelped and leapt back, narrowly avoiding a nasty blow to the head.

“Aurora! It’s just us.” Borra cried. His hand shot out to catch the end of the poker before the queen could swing it at them a second time. “Just us. Me and Diaval – yes, that’s Diaval, can’t you tell? Let us in.”

“Borra?” Aurora gasped, dropping the poker in shock, “What happened to you?” Her eyes roved in horror about his body, taking in the heat-damaged hair, the new skin on his face and torso, and the ruins of his once-glorious wings. “What did this? Was it the explosion?”

“Inside, out of the open.” he replied, ushering her back through the door, “I’ll explain everything whilst we wait for Maleficent.”

Diaval squeezed himself through the door after them – in such a massive form, it was a tight fit – though the room itself was little improvement. His long tail sent a vase flying from where it had once rested on a small table as he turned to nudge the balcony door shut, and it was only thanks to Borra’s lightning reflexes that it did not smash upon the floorboards.

As Borra carefully replaced the vase (Diaval was certain that he heard him muttered something about the poor workmanship of the piece), the raven man shot Aurora an apologetic look and stood by the bed – out of the way of rogue pottery, but able to watch over the occupants of the room as well as the balcony doors that he hadn’t managed to close properly.

Few that those occupants were in number.

Fortunately, Borra, noticing the concerning lack of people in the room as well, asked the very question that Diaval wished to, but could not in the shape of a Roc.

“Where are the prince and the king?” The Desert Fey glanced toward the annex containing Wilfred’s cradle; a small foot waved merrily in the air, oblivious to the danger surrounding them once again. He returned his gaze to Aurora when the missing men failed to materialise.

“They went to check on everyone in the castle – that explosion was quite violent. I wanted to go to, but…” she trailed off. She could not have done so, weak as she was from her recent illness, and with her son to guard as fiercely as only a parent could. For the first time in any of her three reigns, she could not go to her people in their time of need, and it did not sit well at all with her.

Borra exhaled audibly and folded his arms across his damaged chest. “We have to get them back here. Now.”

“They could be anywhere in the castle by now.” Aurora replied.

“They are in danger. We need them where they can be protected, along with you and your son. That explosion was the work of the Warlock.”

Aurora’s jaw dropped. She shook her head vehemently, glancing fearfully toward her son. “No. _No_. It can’t be. You killed him. You told me you’d killed him! It can’t be the Warlock! How can it be the Warlock? He’s dead! He’s _dead_! You killed him in Nyrsta Vígi!”

“Evidently, we should have killed him a bit more thoroughly.” Borra replied sardonically, “He is alive, and he is here in Ulstead. And that means that you humans are all in danger.”

A sudden, terrible thought occurred to Diaval, sending his heart to fluttering uncomfortably in his chest – a thought all the more terrible because there was no way in which he could share it with Aurora and Borra and warn them of the danger. He danced his talons across the floor with a deafening clatter, which succeeded in gaining Aurora’s attention if nothing else.

“Diaval?”

How could he tell her? With a beak instead of lips, and the internal workings of a bird instead of a man, he could only approximate the sounds of speech, and certainly not well enough to be understood by her. He could not hold a quill to pen his thoughts with talons so large – though he might have attempted it in his raven form – nor wear facial expressions well enough for her to comprehend his meaning through unspoken language. He was too big, too birdlike, too different – and yet his mind remained his own, which was arguably the most frustrating part of all.

He bobbed his head from side to side irritably, trying to think of a way to communicate until Maleficent returned and changed him. It could be a matter of minutes – she had promised to do a circuit of the castle and return – but it was not infeasible that she could be gone far longer than that, if the worst happened and she was attacked. Diaval tried not to think too hard on that possibility.

In a flash, the solution came to him. He only hoped that Aurora would forgive him for vandalising the floor of her chamber.

Slowly, carefully, Diaval extended a single great claw and meticulously scraped it across the hardwood to create a long, straight line. Then, peering at the mark in deep concentration, he painstakingly trailed his talon from the top of the line in an arc to the middle, creating a messy, but legible, capital ‘P’.

Looking up at Aurora, he tipped his beak toward the letter, praying that she would understand so that he would not have to etch ‘hillip’ into the floor as well.

He shouldn’t have worried. She was a clever little fledgling.

“Phillip?” she asked, eyed him with concern, “What about Phillip?”

Diaval thought quickly. Seizing on an idea, he jabbed his beak in the air toward the annex and Wilfred’s cradle to indicate the baby, then bent and tapped the ‘P’ on the floor. Aurora frowned, and he repeated the motions until her eyes widened in understanding.

“We need to find Phillip.” she breathed, turning to Borra, “He is in as much danger as Wilfred. More so than the king.”

“Why?”

Aurora frowned and tugged on her hair distractedly; a mannerism which reminded Diaval acutely of Maleficent with her wings in times of acute distress. “They share his blood. Phillip and Wilfred. The Warlock was after a blood sacrifice of his own kin – he only chose Wilfred because he is a defenceless baby, but Phillip would be equally valuable to him.” She looked to Diaval, who had settled upon his haunches by her bed, and determinedly drew herself up to her full height despite how wan and poorly she clearly still was.

He wished that he possessed an eyebrow to raise, as he had seen the look on her face before. On her, on her mother – an expression which was common to the two strong women in his life, and one which never failed to fill him with a sense of wearied trepidation.

Aurora, either missing or ignoring Diaval’s doubtful look, stated firmly, “I need to find him. It goes without saying, but I will say it nonetheless – guard Wilfred, Diaval, and keep him safe. Rip the Warlock to bloodied pieces with those talons if he comes near my baby. I’ll find Phillip-”

“No!” Borra barked, “You stay here. I will go and find your wayward husband.”

Diaval squawked his agreement, extending his mighty wing and using it to reel Aurora in toward him. It encompassed her completely, leaving only a hint of blonde hair between his feathers as evidence of her presence at all. A muffled shout of protest issued from within, ignored by both Diaval and Borra alike.

The latter nodded toward Diaval, acknowledging wordlessly that the raven-turned-Roc would guard the Queen of the Moors and her son, and made his way through the doors into the hallway beyond.

Aurora shoved Diaval’s gigantic breastbone and glowered at him so fiercely that a lesser being might have been terribly afraid of her. “I am not a child to be protected, Diaval!”

Unable to answer her, he released her from the embrace of his wing and snorted a puff of air into her face, eyeing her doubtfully. Child or not, she was _his_ little one, and she had been very ill. As far as Diaval was concerned, there was no alternative to protecting her with his life.

As though reading his mind, Aurora glared at him and insisted, “I am quite recovered from my illness, you know. Phillip is my husband, and he is in danger. Would you be content to sit idly if Mother was in the same sort of danger?”

 _It’s not the same at all,_ Diaval mentally retorted, even as he quietly conceded that he would do no such thing in the defence of his Mistress. Her continued absence worried him more than he was willing to admit, even to himself.

He jerked his beak toward Wilfred in the cradle and made a chittering noise at Aurora, hoping to remind her that there was a very small boy who needed her comfort and protection far more than her husband did.

Aurora glared at him rather than acknowledging that he may have had a point, and swiftly sidestepped the subject of her involvement entirely by focusing his attention back on Maleficent.

“Where _is_ Mother? Wait – you can’t answer that in this form.” she grumbled. “They have to be yes or no questions – wouldn’t it be easier if she just turned you into a Dark Fey? Never mind, that’s not important right now. Is she off doing something brave and foolish?”

Diaval shot her a plaintive look and nodded. Sweet mother of Huginn and Muninn, he would give his right eye to be able to _communicate_ properly, elusive Dark Fey form or not. If Aurora knew that Maleficent was only scouting, and that she would – all things being equal – be back soon, then perhaps she would be less inclined to go gallivanting off after Borra to find her husband. 

He spread his wings as best he could within the bedchamber – they truly were _enormous_ – and made a show of looking about from side to side whilst miming himself flying, before staring pointedly at the balcony doors for several seconds.

“I see.” Aurora sighed, rolling her eyes in exasperated comprehension. “She’s off looking for the Warlock. I suppose that was rather a given, wasn’t it?”

* * *

Maleficent had flown about the castle thrice, searching for any sign of the Warlock.

Though he had only had moments to escape before she and Diaval had ventured outside, he was nowhere to be seen. She had found a number of servants in varying stages of panic, screaming and running about wildly like ants around a disturbed nest. Most seemed unharmed for all that they were shaken, and for the first time in her memory, her presence proved a _comfort_ to the humans. They looked up at her with grateful eyes, pointing her out to the others and calling out their thanks. Some of the stablehands even began to cheer – she wondered if Ekkert was responsible for instigating that, though she did not see him – and she offered them an awkward little wave before moving away.

Further on, she found the remains of two more servants who had been directly in the line of fire during the blast, who had sadly not been as fortunate as Borra. They lay where they had fallen, dead before they had hit the ground. Their muscles had contracted with the sudden heat, causing them to curl up as though back in the womb. So charred and blackened were the remains that Maleficent could not even tell if they had been male or female.

Grimacing, she moved on – they were beyond help, and their killer was still at large. She had to find him before he casually murdered anyone else – like her daughter or grandson, for example.

Rising high above the castle on graceful wings, she waved a hand skyward, sending a bright burst of gold toward the clouds. They began to whirl about madly, whipping in circles. As they moved, they began to dissipate, slowly becoming translucent and allowing the deep orange of the sunset sky to show through them. Ulstead became perceptibly lighter, though it would not last more than a few minutes. Night was far too close.

“Maleficent!”

She turned abruptly at the sound of her name to see Shrike flying toward her at phenomenal speed, followed closely by four other Dark Fey.

“What happened? We heard that from the middle of the Moors.” Shrike looked down at the glassy circle beneath them in confusion.

“Succinctly, the Warlock.”

Shrike swore under her breath.

“I concur.” Maleficent replied, nodding to Udo, Ini, Kobus and Corax as they caught up with Shrike.

“How did he survive? We _crushed_ him!” the Jungle Fey hissed, apparently taking the Warlock’s survival as a personal affront.

“’How’ hardly matters; we must defeat him again.” Maleficent raised her gaze to the sky above them, noting the stars beginning to appear as the dying rays of sunset faded into nothingness. The moon was low on the eastern horizon, waxing gibbous, and almost full. They had no more than twenty-four hours before it was too late to stop the Warlock from fulfilling his scheme and becoming more powerful than any being that they had ever faced.

Unstoppable, even for a Phoenix.

“Udo, I need your eyes in the sky, especially in this low light. Shrike, the castle. Ini, the surrounding village. I will see to it that Aurora and her son are out of harm’s way, and we will meet in her chambers in,” she squinted at the position of the moon, “One hour.”

“One hour.” Shrike confirmed. She made for one of the castle balconies, letting herself in by putting a fist through the glass.

Ini watched her doubtfully but said nothing. She peeled off from the group, heading for the small village which surrounded Ulstead Castle on two sides. It was unlikely that she would find the Warlock there, but her keen vision would prove valuable in the search.

“And if we find the Warlock?” Udo asked.

“Do not engage him. It will take more than one of us alone to defeat him. Reconnaissance only.”

Udo inclined his head. “Very well.” He dropped in altitude and went east, flying low to the ground as slowly as he was able, scouring the castle grounds for a sign of the Warlock’s presence.

“Kobus and Corax,” Maleficent said, turning her attention to the two young Fey, “I have a task for you. Come with me.”

She led the way to Aurora’s balcony and landed nimbly by the door, letting herself into the room without bothering to announce herself.

Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the room and found far fewer people in it than she had anticipated. Aurora stood by Wilfred’s cradle, where she had clearly been tending the boy, and Diaval was by the bed, but she had expected six, not three.

“Where are Phillip and the king? Where is Borra?”

Diaval, still wearing the Roc shape that she had left him in, let out a whiny grumble and bobbed his head from side to side, clattering his talons on the hardwood in a sort of disgruntled ‘hurry-up-and-change-me’ tap dance. She crooked a finger in his direction and the massive bird dissolved into black mist, re-emerging in the familiar shape of Diaval the man. He began a rapid, breathless explanation before his form had fully consolidated.

“John-and-Phillip-went-to-help-anyone-who-might-have-been-hurt-in-the-explosion-and-Borra-went-lookin’-for-them-but-we-stayed-here-because-Aurora-shouldn’t-be-gallivantin’-around-when-there’s-an-unhinged-lunatic-roamin’-about-the-castle-who-might-try-and-kill-her-or-Wilfred-but-Phillip-is-in-just-as-much-danger-and-Borra-has-been-gone-for-a-while-now-and-I-don’t-know-if-we-should-go-lookin’-for-him-or-stay-here…” He leaned his hands on his knees, gasping as he finally drew breath, his eyes darting wildly between Aurora, Maleficent, and the two Dark Fey standing behind her with bewildered expressions on their faces.

“I will find them, but first, we must ensure that Aurora and Wilfred are safe.” Maleficent turned to her daughter, who was now cradling her son. “Aurora, Corax will take you to the castle in the Moors. We need to recall the Tree Guardians and the Fey warriors from the northern border and redistribute them to the east. The Warlock _must_ be kept out of the Moors.”

“What about Phillip? King John?”

“I will locate them both and send them on to the Moors with Kobus. You need to keep yourself, your son, and the Moorfolk safe, and that is best done from the Moors themselves. Tomorrow night is the full moon; we need only keep the Warlock at bay until after that, and then it will be too late for him.”

“And Borra? Can he fight in the state that he’s in?” Aurora asked as Maleficent began to wind one of Wilfred’s blankets around her upper body, making a pouch arrangement in which to carry the baby. She handed her godmother the baby, adjusting the wrap as Maleficent guided his legs through the folds of fabric until he lay snug against her chest.

“I can stimulate the growth of his feathers so that he can fly, given enough time, but he is otherwise sufficiently recovered to fight. Even without flight, he is a formidable warrior.” Maleficent replied.

She led Aurora over to Corax, who was still standing by the balcony door. Maleficent pursed her lips slightly at the Fey, before remembering herself and schooling her expression. She hoped that her momentary doubt had gone unnoticed – it was simply that Corax was so _young_ , even to the eyes of one who, despite being close to fifty years old, was no more than a sixth of the way through her natural lifespan. It seemed somehow wrong to place such an important task on such youthful shoulders; burdens which even the elders of their kind would balk at.

Despite her youth and inexperience, the Forest Fey had adopted a courageous expression, her eyes alive in anticipation of her mission yet somehow still grave with the importance of it. Unusual to the Dark Fey, they were a deep aubergine, a rare genetic legacy which harked back to a time before the humans had all but destroyed their kind.

“Can you carry them?” Maleficent asked.

“I can.”

Turning to Aurora, Maleficent said firmly, “Do not leave the Moors. The most important thing that you can do, besides keeping yourself and your son from becoming victims of the Warlock, is to coordinate the Moorland defences. He likely will not attempt to cross the river, but if Wilfred and Phillip are there, we cannot be certain.”

Aurora nodded firmly, looking every inch the queen that she was born to be. “You have my word.” Her face softened then, and she reached for Maleficent, throwing her arms around her and squashing Wilfred between them, “But please – please be careful. I don’t want to lose my son or my husband, but I don’t wish to lose my mother either. Please be safe.”

Diaval came over to them and put his hand on Aurora’s shoulder; she responded by pulling him into the embrace as well, squeezing him tightly. “You too, pretty bird. Don’t you dare go and get yourself killed. As Queen of the Moors, I forbid it.” she sniffled.

“I wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

“Good. And keep Mother from doing anything foolish.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Maleficent demanded.

“She’s got a point, Mistress. You don’t have the greatest record for ensurin’ your personal safety in these sorts of situations.” Diaval said archly. 

As he spoke, Maleficent suddenly realised just how close he was. One arm wound around her waist even as the other was around Aurora’s, his hand on the small of her back, and he seemed in no hurry to move it. She could count each individual eyelash framing his beautiful eyes and feel the warmth of his breath as he let out a small huff of laughter, trying to diffuse her ire with humour.

_Stop it._

“Don’t worry,” Diaval was reassuring Aurora, “I’ll keep her safe.”

There was a conviction in his tone which both thrilled and terrified her; that he would feel so confident in his ability to keep her from harm was strangely comforting, though she feared just what he might do in order to keep that promise.

“We’ll keep each other safe.” Maleficent replied, “Now go. We’ll send Phillip along after you once we find him.”

Aurora smiled slightly and turned to Corax, who twirled a finger to indicate that she should face the other way. The Forest Fey wound her arms beneath Aurora’s armpits and interlaced her fingers beneath Wilfred’s bottom. Three strong wingbeats later and they were airborne, gliding effortlessly past Korbus and through the balcony door, into the night sky toward the Moors.

Diaval sighed loudly.

“What?” Maleficent asked, regarding him with a frown.

His mouth twisted into a crooked grimace, and his brow furrowed; deep lines suddenly appearing between his eyebrows. “It’s not just Phillip that we need to find.”

“John-”

“Not John. He could use anyone – that is largely the issue – but he chose Wilfred because like himself, Wilfred carries the blood of King Hroáldr. It strengthens the sacrifice. The Warlock’ll use John if there’s nobody else, but no. He wants a blood relative, and even after Wilfred and Phillip are safe in the Moors, there’s still one left here with King Hroáldr’s blood runnin’ in her veins.”

Maleficent bared her fangs as she realised whom Diaval meant.

“ _Her_.”

* * *

Ingrith had little notion of the happenings around Ulstead Castle these days, as few seemed willing to share even the tiniest shred of gossip with her.

 _Gossip_. What an especially ugly word, though it amounted to all that she was likely to get anymore. Her many and varied sources of intelligence and tactical information had dried up the second that faerie bitch had turned her into a goat, and, having only been a human again for a very short time, she had not had the opportunity to re-establish those connections.

Even so, Ingrith had expected some information after the violent explosion which had rocked the castle just an hour earlier. She had waited for some time afterward, wondering if it would be John or Phillip who would come and ensure her safety – or indeed, allow her to leave her gilded prison under the guise of protecting her – but neither came. It had taken some forty minutes before Lawrence, Phillip’s steward, had briefly poked his head around the door, and no sooner had he ascertained that she was unharmed than he was gone again, as though he had never even been there.

Ingrith could only assume from the lack of concern for her welfare that the blast had been Maleficent throwing one of her ill-advised faerie bitch tantrums, and she had either calmed down and gone back to the Moors, or blown herself up entirely. Either way, Ingrith was making a concerted effort not to care.

The sun had set outside, leaving the flickering candles in her chamber as the only source of light by which to write, but write she did, now that she could once more. If she could smuggle a missive from the castle, then someone, somewhere, might be willing to help her to escape.

Perhaps that new chambermaid – Vera? Viola? Something like that – could take it to one of the castle messengers when she returned with supper. The girl had only arrived the day before, and therefore likely did not know the circumstances of Ingrith’s incarceration. She could use that to her advantage.

She sat at her writing desk and gracefully dipped her quill into a pot of ink, tapping it carefully on the side of the glass before pressing it to the sheet of parchment in front of her. After nearly a year of living in the shape of a goat, Ingrith had been pleasantly surprised to discover that her ability to write was almost unchanged. If her letters were slightly larger and less elegantly formed than they had been before, she was certainly unwilling to admit it. 

_James Fitzwilliam, Lord Darvell_

_I write to you, cousin, in the hope of procuring your assistance._

_If you are reading this letter, then I have succeeded in smuggling it from Ulstead Castle from under the watch of my husband’s guards. For the past eleven and some months, since the day of my son Phillip’s wedding to the barely civilised Queen of the Moors, I have been unlawfully incarcerated by my own family, aided by one of the wretched faerie-creatures of the nearby Moors. Until recently, I was unable to write at all, though have regained certain privileges in exchange for information which only I could provide._

Ingrith paused, glaring at the drying ink. A minor Lord of debatable distinction, James Fitzwilliam was barely even a cousin – they shared a single set of great great grandparents – but he was the closest family remaining to her beyond her son and grandson. She intended to emphasise what little familial connection existed if it was likely to prove beneficial to her, though she had no intention of clarifying the specifics of her ‘incarceration’.

_To that end, I am now hoping to gain your pledge in liberating me from this accursed place. I remain Queen of Ulstead in name alone, shunned by my husband the King, and barely tolerated by my son and his ridiculous wife. There remains no future for me in Ulstead. I wish to return to my homeland of Nyrsta Vígi, to the throne of my father, and endeavour to regain that which King Hroáldr lost following the death of my brother._

Although, Ingrith mused, if the ravings of Maleficent and her ilk were to be believed, Fritjof had somehow survived long enough to find himself some useless servants at least. Perhaps he had indeed been behind the kidnapping of her grandson – though if that were the case, why had he not attempted to retake the throne of Nyrsta Vígi? His _birthright_?

 _Weak_ , that was what he was. Weak just like their father.

 _Ingrith_ was not weak. She would prove to one and all that she was the best of all of them. She dipped the quill back into the ink purposefully and continued her letter.

_At a minimum, I request asylum, lest my family attempt to revoke the few privileges which I have regained and imprison me once again. I prostrate myself upon your goodwill cousin,_

(She gritted her teeth – she abhorred grovelling, but alas, needs must – and laid the guilt on as thickly as she could manage.)

_and pray that you will look mercifully on my situation, seeing fit to free me from the terrible fate which has befallen me. I need you, cousin – I cannot do this without you._

_I hope that this letter finds you, as it leaves me, in good health. I await your reply._

_Your cousin,_ (perhaps she was overemphasising the cousin bit a tad?)

_Ingrith, Queen of Ulstead_

Smiling coldly, Ingrith waved a hand over the ink to encourage it to dry faster. The last thing that she needed was for someone to find her letter before she had had a chance to seal it.

“Your Majesty?” came a timid little voice from the doorway. Ingrith looked up with a glare.

It was the new chambermaid. Viviana? Valentina? The girl was holding a dinner tray as though it was about to eat her, her brown eyes wide with terror.

It made Ingrith feel rather happier to see the young woman’s fear. Perhaps not all was lost after all.

“Come in, girl, and lay the tray on the table by the window. Stay. I have a task for you.”

“Yes ma’am.” the girl replied earnestly, setting the tray down and clenching her hands by her sides in nervous fists.

She was frightened. Good – frightened was an excellent starting point. _Insolent_ was far less easy to mould, and most of the servants seemed to have fallen into that attitude since Maleficent’s little manoeuvre, leaving her with few potential allies. But a scared little girl? Ingrith could work with that.

“Viennetta, is it?” Or something along those lines – she had not paid especially close attention when Hilda, one of her lady's maids, had introduced the girl earlier in the day.

“Vætki, ma’am.”

Ingrith narrowed her eyes at the young woman, her interest suddenly piqued. She was evidently not from Ulstead. “Vætki – an unusual name around here. Nyrsta Vígan, am I correct?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

How interesting. How had this Nyrsta Vígan woman – hardly more than a child, really – ended up working in the castle in Ulstead, many days travel away by even the fastest of horses? How had one of the servant class found herself in Ulstead at all? The serfs generally stayed close to home, tilling their fields, marrying their cousins, and producing far too many children who were destined for the same fate (if they survived that long) before dying relatively young, worked to death by their own lifestyles.

The ink had dried. Ingrith folded the parchment carefully and held the tip of her sealing wax to the gently fluttering candle on her writing desk to melt it.

“Vætki,” she said, spilling several drops of hot red wax onto the parchment, “This is a very important letter.” Ingrith pressed her seal firmly into the wax and lifted it carefully, revealing a perfect impression of her boar crest, “I need you to take this directly to one of the castle messengers, and tell him to take it to Lord Darvell in Littleton-on-Sea immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Do not speak to anyone on the way. Nobody else is to know of this. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Ingrith smiled.

She slowly approached the apprehensive girl in front of her, taking in the thinness of her cheeks and the dusky hue of her skin – extremely uncommon for a Nyrsta Vígan, where the majority of the population, like herself, were variations on a pallid theme. There was more to this young woman than met the eye.

Ingrith found herself intrigued rather than uneasy. Perhaps, when the girl returned from her errand, she would probe further, establish her loyalties and ties, and begin the process of making this Vætki her own creature. She had coerced Gerda, after all, and she had possessed a far stronger character than the little brown mouse before her now.

For the first time in many months, Ingrith found herself _pleased_.

Without warning, the balcony door swung open in a great gust of wind, sending papers flying about the room and blowing an obnoxious amount of summer pollen into the room. Ingrith turned away from the sudden burst of air and held a hand to her nose, sneezing violently, cursing that she had insisted upon the doors being reinstated once she had been restored to human form. The plebian fools had clearly done an atrocious job of installing the latches. Dear God in heaven, the _smell_ was incomprehensible – which revolting Moorland flowers gave off the stench of _death_?

Coughing, she looked up at Vætki, who was still standing before her as though nailed to the floorboards. Her eyes were enormous and filled with a terror which seemed quite incongruous to the situation; she stared through Ingrith as though the Queen of Ulstead were nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

“Go and close the doors, girl!” Ingrith barked, waving a hand toward them as another coughing fit overwhelmed her. 

Vætki blinked, coming back from wherever her simple little mind had disappeared to. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry ma’am.” She shuffled to the door, hunched at the shoulders, and pushed them closed. As she turned back around to face the interior of the room, Ingrith noticed that she was trembling. The death smell had become unbearable.

“What is the matter with you?” she snapped.

Vætki barely appeared to notice that she had been addressed, continuing to stare fixedly at a point behind Ingrith’s right shoulder. Slowly, the girl dropped her eyes to the floor and inclined her head, before sinking to her knees as though in respect.

But not toward Ingrith.

The Queen of Ulstead whirled around in alarm as she realised that she and Vaetki were no longer alone in her chambers. It had not been the wind which had opened her balcony door.

Had she been less cognisant of the passage of time, she might have taken the intruder for her father, for the resemblance was undeniable. Her father, though, was likely long dead – expelled from this very palace, and by herself, no less.

Blue eyes which mirrored her own gazed back at her, glinting in amusement. Long, lank blonde hair hung about an emaciated face; terribly thin, but still so like her own. Hunched, stooped with age or illness, lines upon his face which she had never know to exist there – a middle-aged man now, but as recognisable to her as he had been when he was but a child.

He smiled then, a cold, malevolent smile which, despite Ingrith’s confidence in herself, sent ice through her veins. 

Her brother, and yet… not.

His voice was reedy when at last he spoke, hissing the sibilants like a serpent. Ingrith was suddenly very aware of the pounding of her own heart, as loud as the hoofbeats of in an invading cavalry in her ears. This was not salvation. Not at all.

“Have you missed me _terribly_ , sister? I’m so very glad to see _you_.”


	26. Chapter 26

“Head for the barracks. Take some blankets and go straight there. If you come across anyone else on the way, take them with you.” Phillip instructed Lawrence, who had gathered a small group of frightened servants in the great hall and was trying to maintain a brave front.

John came up behind Phillip and put a hand on his shoulder to gain his attention. “I am going up to your mother’s rooms, and from there I will bring her up to Aurora’s. Once you are done here, meet us there. I expect that Maleficent will have found her way there and will hopefully be able to shed some light on all of this.”

Phillip nodded his acknowledgment without looking at his father, instead ushering a painfully young spit-boy – who had obviously bolted from the kitchens at the first hint of danger – after Lawrence with a reassuring smile. If he was putting on a show for the sake of the boy, then the lad thankfully did not notice.

John disappeared into one hallway at the same moment as Shrike appeared from another, snarling as she spotted him as though he was the one who was unexpectedly in the castle, rather than she.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be with your mate?” she hissed.

“I’m the crown prince. I was engaging in post-explosion crown prince duties. What are you doing here? And is that a piece of _glass_ in the back of your hand?”

Shrike followed his eyes down to her right hand, where a large shard of glass was indeed sticking out from between her second and third knuckles. She pulled it out nonchalantly and flung it into a corner, where it tinkled to a sudden stop against the stone wall and fell to the floor. Phillip watched the bleeding wound it had left slowly begin to close. He wondered if the Dark Fey had any understanding of just how fortunate they were to have the ability to heal themselves so rapidly.

“Consider yourself relieved of those duties. The Warlock is skulking about here somewhere and-”

“ _What?!_ ”

Shrike blinked at him. “You didn’t know? What did you think caused that explosion? We heard it from the Moors!”

“I-uh…” he rubbed his hand against the back of his neck and grimaced, “Honestly, I had no idea. I was just ensuring that nobody had been hurt. I have to get back to Aurora and Wilfred. Right now.”

“Yes, you do. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Maleficent insists upon you all going to the Moors – in which case, I’ll escort you there myself, if only to keep you out of accidental foppish trouble.” Shrike replied, seizing Phillip’s elbow and steering him toward the stairs. Her talons dug painfully into his skin, but he suspected that complaining about it would be met with those talons around his ear instead, as though he were a naughty child, and so he kept his woes to himself.

Besides which, if what Shrike had said was true, and the Warlock was indeed at Ulstead Castle, a minor issue like a Dark Fey death grip on his elbow was hardly worth the effort it took to think about it. 

His son was still in danger.

* * *

King John hurried along the dimly lit hallway toward Queen Ingrith’s chambers, encountering no other life but a small spider on the wall, which scurried away into the darkness as his shadow slid over it.

Ingrith’s rooms were just ahead of him, around a corner and twenty paces on from there. He wondered if the guards that he had posted outside of her door had remained there, or if the explosion and the resulting confusion had sent them running for cover. It was entirely possible that he would reach his wife’s rooms to find them entirely deserted.

John was not sure quite what he would do in that case – particularly if she had taken advantage of the situation and disappeared into the chaos. He would not put such a thing past her.

A pair of startled cries carried through the corridor ahead of him, followed by two dull thumps – bodies hitting the floor, he realised with panic. He broke into a jog as he heard voices echoing – a harsh male voice, and an imperious, but frightened, female one.

 _Ingrith_.

John skidded to a halt at the bend in the hallway, flattening himself as best he could against the corner and leaning toward the people beyond. The male voice was hissing unintelligible words, interspersed with sudden howls of manic laughter.

“What do you want, Fritjof?!” Ingrith’s voice reverberated along the floorboards. A less astute listener might have taken her tone for arrogance, even boredom, but John had known her for far to long to be fooled by such assumptions. He had heard that tone on her arrival in Ulstead from Nystra Vígi, so many years ago. He had heard it again on the second day of her labour with their son, before the pain had stolen her voice altogether. Though he had been under a curse during the Wedding Day Battle, he had no doubt that he would have heard it again then, too. Her haughty pride was a mask that she wore to hide her fear.

But, John realised with a jolt, he was not the only one who knew that. 

Fritjof. She had called the man Fritjof.

There was only one Fritjof that John knew of, and he had supposedly been killed by Maleficent and the Dark Fey in Járnahöll only days before. Apparently, that had been something of a premature assumption, and now his errant brother-in-law had found his way, not just to Ulstead, but inside the castle.

He had no doubt that Ingrith’s long-lost brother could see straight through her bravado, just as he could.

“Poor little Ingrith,” the man replied gleefully, “Are you _afraid_ of me? Your own brother? It’s as though you don’t know me at all.”

“On the contrary,” Ingrith hissed, “I know you all too well. You’ve not changed a bit, Fritjof. Still a sad little creature who wishes to be more than he is.”

Fritjof cackled. It was a high, eerie sound which was utterly devoid of any true humour, and John found himself suddenly covered in gooseflesh. 

Marrying Ingrith and solidifying an alliance with Nyrsta Vígi had seemed like such a good idea at the time, John mused uneasily. He probably should have taken the time to do more than the most cursory of research into hereditary madness in the royal family of the far north kingdom. It was hard to believe that he had, until very recently, though Ingrith herself to be somewhat unhinged; ironic, really, that she would turn out to be the saner sibling after all.

“Indeed, I _have_ changed, sister.” Fritjof growled, clearly offended by Ingrith’s scathing analysis, “More than you could possibly imagine.”

A heartbeat later, the deafening sound of stone tearing itself apart echoed through the hallway, accompanied by Ingrith’s petrified screaming. Chunks of broken stone skidded toward the corner where King John hid, pressing himself into the walls as though trying to become one with them. Glancing at the debris, he recognised the nose of Lord Bernard Gregory, advisor to his thrice-great grandfather, whose statue evidently no longer stood outside of Ingrith’s chambers.

“You would do well to fear me, Ingrith,” the Warlock snarled, “For I wield the magic of the Erlkönig, a being of unrivalled power. Tomorrow night, at the full moon, you shall allow me to take the final step in my transformation – to become a _true_ warlock. And then I shall be,” he whispered, “ _Unstoppable_.”

“You’re insane.”

The Warlock laughed again. “And you are my prisoner, sister. Now _come_.”

Scuffling footsteps began to move away from Ingrith’s chambers, heading for the staircase which eventually led to the throne room. King John counted ten seconds, then chanced a glance around the corner. A cloak whipped around a bend at the far end of the hallway and out of sight.

Slowly, carefully, John picked his way over the prone bodies of his royal guards and the ruins of the statue of Lord Gregory – it appeared that the Warlock had caused it to explode in a demonstration of his power – and tiptoed after his wife and her psychotic brother.

After several minutes of tailing them – quite stealthily, if John did say so himself – it was quite clear that Fritjof was, indeed, bound for the throne room.

“Two ways in and out, one of which leads directly outside…” he muttered to himself, “Must have the guards surround the outer door-”

A hand whipped out from the darkness of an unlit doorway and seized his upper arm, pulling him into the room behind it. John yelped, but only momentarily, as another hand – calloused and taloned – clamped firmly over his mouth.

“Don’t shout. It’s me.” a gravelly voice breathed into his ear, slowly releasing the hold on the King’s mouth. John whipped his head around, catching a glimpse of damaged wings and upper arms of solid muscle.

“Borra,” he whispered, “What happened to you? What is going on? Ingrith’s brother is here! _Here_! And he still has magical ability! You told us that he was dead!”

“Not as dead as we’d hoped. Come on, human king, we need to get you to safety.”

“Not yet. I need to know what Fritjof plans to do with Ingrith.” He twisted out of Borra’s grasp and set off at a trot after his wife.

Borra snarled irritably and quickly caught him up. “What are you doing? You are going to end up dead, and that son of yours is hardly ready to manage a jousting tournament, never mind a kingdom.” With that, the Desert Fey grabbed each of John’s shoulders firmly and began to force him bodily back the way he had come. 

It occurred to John to protest – after all, his wife, horrible though she was, was a hostage of her own brother, and as King of Ulstead he did bear _some_ responsibility for her safety – but it was clear from the determined way in which Borra was relentlessly marching him away from danger that his objections were likely to be ignored.

“What about Ingrith?” he asked finally. It seemed an innocent enough question.

“Leave it to us.” Borra replied gruffly.

“I think that he intends to hurt her.” John insisted.

Borra glanced down at the shorter man and smirked, continuing his unremitting pace along the hallway. “Oh, he intends to hurt her.”

“I can’t allow that to happen. I’m not especially fond of her, but she _is_ my wife. ‘Til death do us part and all that…”

Borra slowed at that, staring at King John as though he had grown wings and declared himself a Dark Fey. “You dislike the woman, and your human customs do not allow you freedom from her until one of you dies, and yet you still wish to _prevent_ her death? That makes perfect sense, human king. An astounding display of logic. How your lot managed to conquer the Earth baffles me.”

John pursed his lips. Borra was not _wrong_ , per se – though having his contradictory feelings laid bare like that was rather uncomfortable – but he was hardly prepared to explain that it was possible to dislike somebody but still find the concept of their immediate demise unpalatable.

“Fortunately for you, King John of Ulstead, saving your genocidal wife from a grisly fate at the hand of her own brother, in order to prevent that brother from becoming an even greater threat than _she_ ever was, happens to be precisely what we need to do. Maleficent and I, that is, not you. You’re useless.” Borra remarked, grinning toothily at the King.

John seldom found himself truly angry. He had learned to quash what little temper he possessed early in his marriage to Ingrith, as her unholy rages outdid any which he might have been able to muster anyway. It was simply not worth allowing himself to become worked up about things, and to that end, he had gained a reputation as being a kind, just, and above all, _level-headed_ monarch.

Schooling himself in calm did not, however, mean that he was incapable of losing his temper.

Human, yes. Unable to use magic, or fly, or do any of the incredible things which Borra and his kind took for granted. 

But useless?

No. He was not useless.

A fit of indignation seized him as he twisted suddenly against Borra’s grip and shoved him aside, catching the Desert Fey off guard. John allowed himself the briefest twinge of regret in doing so – the Dark Fey was obviously injured, and his shove had probably caused the man pain – but he took his momentary advantage and _ran_.

His reputation for being predictable and compliant was a rather useful sort of thing, he thought as he bolted down the hallway as fast as a man who was well into his sixth decade could manage, because it meant that nobody ever _expected_ him to do anything foolhardy – such as escaping the custody of an ill-tempered faerie who could crush him between two fingers.

 _Well_ , King John thought, narrowly avoiding tripping over a fallen tapestry as he chanced a glance back at the irate Dark Fey giving chase, _surprises keep life interesting. Useless, my eye_.

* * *

“He’s not here.” Diaval muttered irritably.

Though the Warlock could have been anywhere, Maleficent had insisted upon coming straight to the throne room from Aurora’s chambers, ignoring the threat to Ingrith entirely. Undoubtedly, she had her reasons for pretending that the Queen of Ulstead did not exist, but she had deigned to share them with Diaval. He suspected that his Mistress was hoping that someone else would deal with her.

“He will come. He created that altar just outside these throne room doors for a reason. I question whether or not it is strictly _necessary_ for the purposes of his blood sacrifice, or merely a manifestation of some innate theatrical hubris in the Nyrsta Vígan royal family, but regardless, we shall deny him access to it.” Maleficent replied. Diaval watched as she raised her hands above her head, swathed in gold, and gently began to coax a thicket of thorns from the bare earth between the doorway in which she stood and the Warlock’s circle of glassy melted sand. They grew rapidly, woody and sharp, as tall as a church spire and dense enough that barely a chink of light could penetrate between them.

Finally, satisfied, Maleficent lowered her hands to her hips to admire her handiwork. Diaval had to bite back a chortle at the familiarity of her stance – one which he often adopted in his human form. He would not take the risk of drawing attention to her mimicking his mannerisms, of course, but it amused him.

Besides, if he thought hard enough about it, he could probably think of a few of her little quirks that he had managed to pick up over the years as well.

“So that’ll keep him from usin’ the outer doors, at least for a time – are you goin’ to do the same with the inner doors?”

“No. I want to prevent him from being able to access the exterior without considerable effort – though he will not know of this until he opens the doors, should it come to that. One might hope that we will have long dispatched him before he gets that far. For now, however, we will wait for him in the annex. If he is in the castle, it is probably that he will come through that way – with his sister, I expect.”

“We should’ve gone and gotten her.” Diaval replied. He could hardly stand to be in the same room as Ingrith, but leaving her in potential danger did not sit well at all.

“We would have been too late. He had a head start on us there.” She shut the outer doors firmly, barring them for good measure, and sauntered through the throne room toward the doors into the annex.

Diaval glanced at the iron sword which he had left by one of the suits of armour barely hours before. Perhaps he should take it – an iron sword would prove a valuable asset in fighting a semi-magical sort-of-warlock. Yes – yes, he would take it with him.

He took three steps toward the armour in which it was concealed before the sound of raised voices stole his attention.

“It’s him!” Maleficent hissed, tucking her wings up tightly against her back and peering around the doorway. Diaval moved to stand beside her, keeping out of the line of sight of anyone in the small chamber.

Ingrith’s voice – petulant and terrified – echoed from the stairs and through the small gallery to where they hid. “What are you trying to achieve, Fritjof? Taking over Ulstead? Do you really think that the people here will follow you if you murder their queen?”

“They hate you, you foolish creature. I expect that they would thank me for doing what the winged woman failed to do.” The Warlock paused, chuckling dangerously, “Oh, did you not know how far the word had spread? _Maaaaaaa_!” he mocked her.

A scuffling sound told Diaval that the Warlock had seized Ingrith once more and was forcing her to the bottom of the stairs. He wondered, fleetingly, if she would notice the ashen ruins of her horrible painting there, still laying in a sad little heap on the floor where it had fallen.

Maleficent reached behind her and touched his arm, though she did not tear her eyes from the doorway. “We go in on the count of three. Try to get Ingrith out of there. Leave the Warlock to me.” she whispered.

Diaval wanted to point out the flaw in her plan – taking on the Warlock, who had already proven so powerful, alone, and without anyone but he knowing where they were or what they were doing, was foolhardy even by Maleficent standards. Though she possessed unimaginable power, the depths of which had never been fully ascertained, so too did the Warlock. Stolen or not, he controlled the Erlkönig’s magic, and was all too adept at using it against those that he considered enemies. He knew her too well, though, and there was no sense in wasting his breath.

“Aye,” he replied instead, “On three.”

It happened in a blur. One moment, Maleficent was counting softly in his ear, and the next, she was whipping around the doorway into the room like a golden fire-demon. The Phoenix spirit within her roared to life and swathed her in a blinding inferno of luminescent magic which seemed to emanate from every pore, engulfing her from her toes to the outer feathers of her wingtips. Glorious in her fury, she snarled and sent an enormous bolt of magic surging toward the Warlock.

He leapt aside at the last moment and fell into Ingrith, sending her sprawling onto the stairs in a tangle of silk and pearls. The blast caught the Warlock on the shoulder, singeing his skin and adding the odour of burning flesh to the amalgam of unpleasantness which perpetually surrounded the man. 

He stared at the injury and roared in enraged disbelief. Baring his teeth at Maleficent, the Warlock raised his hands above his head; barely controlled magic, fed by sadistic rage, crackled and sparked from his fingertips, arcing to the walls and ceiling as bright bolts of emerald lightning.

The lightning spewed forth in a torrent toward Maleficent, who took to the air to avoid it. Wings spread to their full span and alight with the bold flames of her own magic, she circled above the room. Her eyes glowed amber, drowning out the natural green, growing ever brighter with rage and raw power as the Warlock continued to throw blasts of magic toward her. Weaving and turning with the grace of a dancer, she avoided most of his barrages with ease, and countered with a relentless bombardment of her own. 

Rather than dodge her blows, the Warlock planted his feet firmly and raised his hand high above his head. He roared; inhuman and feral, the embodiment of the beast that he had become. A cascade of magic issued from his fingertips and spread over him in a sphere, forming a shield against Maleficent’s attack.

In a flash, he lifted his other hand and shot a sudden bolt toward her. Though she swerved, it glanced the edge of her wing, singeing the feathers to ash and leaving the spot naked and reddening from the rapid heat. The smell of burning plumage joined the melange of scents which pervaded the annex.

Maleficent’s eyes flashed dangerously and she snarled, even as her magic began to heal the injury. Dozens of pinfeathers burst forth as one, pushing through the exposed papillae and reaching their full length in seconds. New barbs emerged and spread out to fill the scorched gap as though it had never existed at all.

She rounded on the Warlock, landing opposite him with a vicious glare and a deep, threatening growl. “This ends _now_.”

“Does it, faerie?” he replied with a feral grin, his eyes as cold and lifeless as deepest midwinter, “I think _not_.”

The Warlock rose up, a snake about to strike an unwitting victim, and sent an enormous blast of malevolent lightning in Maleficent’s direction. Reacting on instinct, she did the same with a powerful volley of her own, meeting his magic at a point between them and holding it there, sparking and flickering, burning as blindingly as the sun.

Maleficent gritted her teeth and gathered her power, allowing it to flow freely, slowly pushing the brightly blazing fusion of magic back toward the Warlock.

As the mass of energy approached him, flaming and spitting and shooting sparks of lightning every which way about it, the Warlock countered, summoning a greater reserve from the conjoined body of the Erlkönig to send their combined magic back in the opposite direction.

With a roar, Maleficent swept her hand in a wide arc to break the stalemate, pushing rapid bursts of energy toward the pulsating mass before her. The ball of magic between her and the Warlock exploded violently, sending deadly blasts flying off in a hundred directions at once. 

Diaval, already crouching low to the floor, threw himself down to narrowly avoid being hit by a stray bolt – though from whom, he could not tell. It hit the wall behind him, sending brutal shards of stone flying as it gouged a sizeable chunk from the masonry.

Curling up as best he could to make himself a smaller target, Diaval crab-crawled along the floorboards toward the staircase, giving Maleficent and the Warlock as wide a berth as possible as they continued to throw increasingly destructive spells at each other. Alas, they were all too evenly matched – the Erlkönig, prior to his almost-death, must have been a formidable creature indeed. Bright flashes lit up the walls of the annex like the sky in a lightning storm; shades of emerald and jade, interspersed with dancing shadows in the echoes of the brilliant, furious xanthous flames of Maleficent’s Phoenix power.

Diaval hoped, with a bit of luck on his side, that he might be able to spirit Ingrith away in the mayhem of battle – his dislike for the woman far outweighed by the sincerity of his promise to Maleficent to get the Queen out of danger – but as he approached the base of the stairs, he froze. Ingrith was not alone.

 _Vætki_. Why was she _here_?

He had not seen her as he and Maleficent had come into the room – perhaps she had been behind the Warlock, or he had simply missed her in the heat of the moment – but there she was, creeping over to Ingrith on all fours with her head hung low; subservient rather than afraid.

She was accustomed to this, Diaval realised with a jolt of empathy – her life being under threat. She moved without calling attention to herself and without fear, as though she genuinely believed that trying to preserve her existence was futile.

He supposed that it was, living with one such as the Warlock. Her life was so unceasingly miserable that she had no fear of death.

Pressed against the side of the staircase, Diaval raised his head slightly, hoping to signal Vætki and gain her help in getting Ingrith to safety, but a stray blast of magic – Maleficent’s, this time, for it had turned the vivid shade of green which only she was capable of producing in the deepest depths of her rage – whizzed just above him, missing him by a fraction of an inch. He dropped and landed heavily on his back, only to be met by a sight as unexpected as it was welcome.

Staring down at him from midway up the staircase, his hand firmly clenching the russet robe of the struggling King of Ulstead to keep the man from descending any further, was Borra.

The Desert Fey’s eyes flicked up to the continuing battle before him, sweeping expertly across the room, evaluating the progress of the fight and assessing his options. 

Finally, he pulled King John closer – rather roughly, though the King did not protest such treatment, instead fixating on his oblivious wife on the stairs below him – and snarled, “Bloody _stay here_ ,” into his ear, before climbing up onto the balustrade like a gargoyle atop a building.

Diaval watched Borra’s keen gold eyes flicking from Maleficent to the Warlock for several seconds. His body tensed, muscles bulging in readiness. At last, seeing his chance, Borra leapt over the side of the balustrade with a deafening battle cry, his damaged, flightless wings flaring out instinctively in spite of themselves. Diaval rolled himself out of the way to avoid being landed on, only realising how far he had moved when his shoulder collided painfully with the opposite wall. He crouched against it, his eyes darting around the room to take in every detail of the ongoing fight, on the chance those details proved vital in deciding the victor.

Borra landed mere feet from the Warlock, staring the older man down with a manic glint in his eye. The Warlock took a step back in surprise. He rallied in moments, however; an unhinged grin curled across his weathered face as he moved to strike the Desert Fey down. Diaval could see Maleficent in his peripheral vision, taking a step closer and summoning her magic to counter the attack and protect Borra, though he could also read uncertainty in her posture, an awareness of how easily she could hurt him in trying to defend him.

Borra, oblivious to Maleficent’s concern, let out a crazed laugh and reared back, letting fly with a bone-crunching right hook that caught the Warlock straight in the face. The Warlock reeled and stumbled, his hand flying to his bleeding nose. On the receiving end of Maleficent’s magical attacks, he had clearly expected likewise from Borra, and so the Desert Fey’s crude, but effective method of disabling him had taken him completely by surprise.

The Warlock’s eyes darkened with rage. His irises flickered between their natural blue and deep scarlet, finally settling on the latter colour as he lost his final remaining hold on his self-control.

Magic burst from him in a great eruption, shooting wildly in all directions. Borra threw himself onto the floor, somersaulting backwards and ending up beside Diaval. John, Ingrith and Vætki, still on the staircase, flattened themselves against it as splintered fragments of the balustrade fell down upon them.

The chandelier above exploded, raining glass down upon Maleficent. As quick as a whip, she raised her wings above her to shield herself from it, but the action left her vulnerable. Before she could shield her midsection from attack, the Warlock whipped around, nearing the throne room doors, and sent a massive blast of magic straight at her.

It struck true. Maleficent flew up and backward with the force of the impact, colliding heavily with the upper part of the stone staircase. A sickening crack echoed through the annex as she impacted, followed by a dull thump as she fell limply to the wooden floor below.

She lay as still as death.

“Mistress…” Diaval whispered fearfully. She could not be dead. No. Not like that, so suddenly, so _pointlessly_ – and not in a way which would allow her to resurrect herself, as she had done before.

_Get up, Mistress! Please get up!_

He was moving before he realised that he was doing it, his heart fluttering in his chest like a caged bird, though his feet seemed unsure as to where they wanted to go. One step toward Maleficent – to throw himself upon her and beg her not to leave him; the next toward the Warlock, his talons bared, ready to kill the one who dared to hurt the one he loved, to tear him limb from limb until his pain evoked some semblance of that which he had inflicted upon Maleficent.

The Warlock laughed.

“Is it your turn now? A pathetic little human such as yourself – I suppose that you would love to be able to fly, wouldn’t you?” he jeered.

As he did, a tiny noise issued from the base of the stairs. A groan – barely audible – but a groan nonetheless. Diaval’s heart leapt with joy as Maleficent slowly began to move, shakily pushing herself into a seated position and glaring at the Warlock with an expression which might have melted solid iron. She rose unsteadily to her feet, leaning against the staircase, snarling like a cornered feral cat.

“Stop!” she shouted, her magic cracking green about her fingertips like tiny bolts of lightning. She tentatively took a single step toward the Warlock, but as she raised her hands to strike, her face suddenly drained of colour and she staggered to keep herself upright.

“Aww,” the Warlock mocked, “Poor little faerie. That must _hurt_.”

He threw his head back in laughter; cold and taunting as he delighted in the pain which he had caused.

“Vætki” he barked at the girl, who still cowered on the staircase beside the Queen, “Bring her here.”

Vætki hesitated for a heartbeat, wetting her lips with her tongue. Then, with eyes downcast, she stood, pulling Ingrith to her feet, and guided her over to the Warlock. Ingrith appeared to be in shock, for she did not struggle; instead allowing herself to be repositioned like a child’s toy in an elaborate game.

Her brother seized her upper arm violently, pulling her from the internal refuge she had retreated to and wrenching a cry of pain from her throat.

“Brother, please…” she quavered.

Scowling, the Warlock’s grip on Ingrith’s upper arm tightened and he shoved her roughly into the throne room. She fell, landing hard on the floor, and began to shuffle away from the Warlock on her rear without tearing her tremulous gaze from him. He strode through the doors as confidently as a king in his own domain, turning back to the annex tauntingly.

“Vætki. Come.”

With a sigh, the girl followed him demurely, her eyes still cast downward and her shoulders as slumped as those of a withered crone.

“Vætki…” Diaval called to her, “Don’t go with him. After all that he did to you. _Why_?”

She looked up at him with inscrutable eyes, as blank as he had ever seen them. It was as though she did not even recognise him. Without a word, she followed the Warlock all the way into the throne room and stood behind him, an emaciated statue.

“Foolish man. She is mine.” the Warlock growled. He waved his arm above his head, and Diaval ducked instinctively. Rather than send a bolt of magic toward the raven man, though, the Warlock sent his stolen magic to each of the wooden doors, causing them to slam shut and separate the two rooms.

The magic did not dissipate, however. It continued to weave about the doors, slowly changing their very being into an unbreakable barrier. In a matter of moments, what once was wood had become solid, impenetrable stone.

It was as though a spell had been broken. As one, the remaining occupants of the annex began to move.

Borra stood and approached the solid wall, slapping it roughly to ascertain its nature and grunting when it proved to be true stone rather than an illusion. “Is there another way into that room?”

John nodded, quickly moving down the stairs to join them. His uncanny calm reminded Diaval of the aftermath of the Wedding Day Battle, and the astounding acceptance of the subsequent chaos that he had woken up to. A madman had just taken his wife hostage, and his equanimity was almost unnerving. 

“The outer doors. But those are the only ones remaining.”

“Not anymore,” Diaval replied, “Mistress grew a thorn wall outside of them. He can’t get out of there in a hurry, but it means that we can’t get in, either.”

Unperturbed, Borra continued, “Windows?”

“High and small. Too small for you to fit through, I’m afraid.” John replied.

“We will find a way to get to them. But first, we ensure the safety of those who cannot protect themselves.” Maleficent said suddenly from the base of the stairwell. Her voice wavered in a higher register than usual, and Diaval turned to her in alarm. It was not a tone that he heard especially often, but the few times that he had, it had always been associated with the same thing.

 _Pain_.

Diaval realised the problem in seconds, swallowing his rising gorge at the potential implications of her injury. Maleficent’s right wing hung limply at a disturbingly unnatural angle, collapsing lifelessly beside her as she trembled and slowly sank to the floor again. The force and angle of the impact with the staircase had snapped the humeral bone of the wing clean in two.

“Maleficent!” Borra exclaimed, moving closer to crouch beside her as he too realised the extent of her injury. He reached out a hand to her wing before thinking better of it and withdrawing again before she turned on him. Intended mate or not, she was unpredictable even when she _wasn’t_ hurt, and his sense of self-preservation prevailed.

Maleficent swallowed hard, breathing deeply enough that Diaval could see the hollow of her throat dipping in with each inhalation even from a distance. “Take John to Aurora’s rooms, Borra. Make sure that Kobus and Shrike see him and Phillip to the Moors, and if Udo and Ini have returned, send them to protect Aurora and her family. We only need distract the Warlock until after the full moon, and they will be safe.”

“But your wing…!”

“Not your concern. See the King to safety.” she replied curtly.

Borra nodded and rose to his feet. “I will return.”

Maleficent inclined her head in acknowledgement, closing her eyes for a moment as a jolt of pain shuddered through her body. Borra hesitated briefly, torn between his perceived duty to his almost-mate and his very real duty to the King of Ulstead, but finally turned to John.

“Come on, then. Lead the way.” he said gruffly.

King John looked between Maleficent and Diaval with a concerned frown. He opened his mouth to say something, but Diaval interrupted.

“It’s all right. She’ll be all right. Go.”

“If you’re sure.”

“We have it in hand. Go to your family.” Diaval replied assuredly, hoping that he was convincing enough to get John moving toward relative safety. As it turned out, he was a far better actor than he had given himself credit for – John, pursing his lips in doubt at leaving them to fend for themselves, began to move toward the staircase which had so brutally injured Maleficent. Borra followed him a few steps behind, though he maintained a steady pace to keep the king moving with the threat of his presence alone.

Diaval watched them as they disappeared into the hallway at the top of the stairs before returning his attention to his Mistress. She was still hunched where she had quietly collapsed against the base of the stairs, her uninjured wing jerking irritably as its twin hung still and awkward beside it.

Maleficent looked up at him with a vulnerability which only he, only ever he, was permitted to see.

“Diaval,” she beckoned tightly, “Please.”

He did not need her to voice her request; they had been in this situation, albeit reversed, several times in the past two decades. Though he was hardly an incautious creature, he _had_ managed to break bones on three separate occasions (only one of which was entirely his own fault), requiring Maleficent to set them before magically healing the injuries. He knew what needed to be done.

She had always lulled him into semi-consciousness to dull the pain before moving anything around, though, Diaval recalled with a jolt of concern. He doubted that she would afford herself the same consideration. He would have to be extremely careful to avoid hurting her any more than was completely necessary.

Diaval crossed the short distance between them and knelt by Maleficent’s broken wing, offering her a reassuring smile. Her lips were drawn into a thin line, the lower one trapped between her sharp teeth, and her pupils were unnaturally large, but she was otherwise making a concerted effort to hide any further sign of the pain she was undoubtedly in.

Ribbons of gold flickered around the ends of the snapped bone, trying in vain to heal the injury. There was a clear inch between each end, and a jagged bone fragment had pierced the delicate skin surrounding it on one side; blood flowed, scarlet and steady, from the wound and into the darkness of her feathers. Diaval winced – there was no way that he could avoid hurting her greatly.

“Come on, Diaval,” Maleficent muttered through clenched teeth, squeezing her eyes closed and breathing rather faster than he liked to hear, “You know what needs to be done. Just get it over with.”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Diaval carefully placed a hand either side of the break, disregarding the instinctive jerk of her wings at the contact.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he whispered, well aware of just how much pain he was about to cause her – and _pulled_.

He felt, more than saw, the bones align properly – instead watching her entire body tense and stiffen in his peripheral vision. Though every muscle in her jaw tightened and her hands trapped her skirts into white-knuckled fists, she remained unsettlingly silent; a sharp inhalation the only vocalisation she permitted herself. After a moment, she drew her knees up to her chest and released a great shuddering breath. Her lower lip trembled.

Gold flames danced along the newly aligned bone, knitting the ends together and healing the wound in the skin above. Diaval held it steady, waiting until the magic gradually faded and dispersed entirely before releasing Maleficent’s mended wing and turning to her at last.

A patina of perspiration had formed across her brow, and her eyes, when she opened them to look at him, glistened with unshed tears. Unable to stop himself, Diaval reached out to stroke her cheek. Worsening her pain had been unavoidable, but that indisputable fact did not make him feel any less guilty. She leaned into his palm, closing her eyes for a moment and breathing deeply in a way which set his pulse palpitating; black wings trapped beneath a net, helpless but for her, _because_ of her.

“I’m sorry.” he murmured again. No doubt her wing was still hurting her, and he probably hadn’t helped matters by bruising her either side of the break as he set the bone. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep himself from gathering her in his arms and holding her until nothing in creation could hurt her anymore.

“Thank you.” she replied at last, brushing her lips against his palm and forcing a brave smile.

Though the tiny gesture sent Diaval’s pulse racing and tingling through his limbs, he mentally scolded himself – she was merely grateful for his help in setting her broken wing so that it would heal properly, saving her ability to fly. Nothing more. Nothing more, and certainly nothing justifying the deep longing within him to see if she would be willing to repeat that soft whisper of her lips upon his own.

He reluctantly dropped his hand from her cheek instead, offering it to her to help her up. “Can you stand?”

Maleficent nodded as she took it, shakily getting to her feet and stretching her wing out, testing for pain or limited movement. Finding neither, she flashed a tiny smile at Diaval and squeezed his hand. “Good as new.”

“Good.” he replied softly, carefully reaching out to smooth the errant feathers. There was nothing that he could do about the blood, already drying in amongst them, but he could lay them down properly if nothing else. When this was all over, the Warlock defeated and their family safe once more, he would preen them properly for her.

One last time.

Diaval dropped Maleficent’s hand and turned his face from her, blinking away the prickling heat which had sprung to his eyes at the remembrance of her plan. They were never his wings to preen, not really, but to never be able to touch them again, run his fingers through their velvet softness and groom them so that they shone with health, making them beautiful as befitting one as deserving as Maleficent… the realisation sat heavy in his gut like a lump of lead.

Maleficent touched his shoulder and he instinctively looked back to her, tears or not. Whether she did not notice or chose not to, Diaval could not be certain, but she did not speak a word to his misery. Her eyes were soft, though, in a manner unusual to her, and it was all that he could do to keep from becoming lost within them. He could not help but wonder if somewhere, deep within herself, she understood his torment and rued that she was the cause of it.

“I have an idea,” she said, pitching her voice low so that only he could hear, “But I cannot do it. It needs to be you.”

Diaval frowned. “What would you have me do?”

Maleficent turned and pointed upward, to the rafters which spanned the length and breadth of the ceiling and braced the floor above them. Long, thick beams of solid wood, hewn from trees which had stood for centuries before the humans decided to harvest them to build their monument to royal hubris. They speared the stone walls at their ends, pushing into the adjacent rooms; a skeleton unbounded by the relentless compartmentalising of the beings who dwelt within.

Diaval followed the line of Maleficent’s finger along one of the beams, to the point where it met the wall.

“Do you see that?” she murmured, leaning closer as though sharing a secret. He doubted that their voices would carry into the next room, soft as they were, but he moved closer to her, nonetheless. Prudence certainly would not hurt, after all.

“The hole?” he replied quietly, “That little chink in the stone beside the beam?”

“Indeed. I think that it goes right through into the throne room. I can see light coming from the other side.”

He turned back to her then, eyebrow raised. “You want me to sneak in there?”

Maleficent narrowed her eyes. “If I change you into something small and inconspicuous, like a mouse…”

“Then I can hear what is goin’ on in there.” Diaval finished. “Makes sense. And I haven’t been a mouse before. In fact, I don’t think you’ve ever changed me into somethin’ I was inclined to eat before.”

A tiny smile flickered across her face, though it vanished almost as soon as it had appeared and solemnity schooled her features once more. “I will remain here. If there is even the slightest _whiff_ of danger, you get back through the hole _immediately_.”

“I will,” Diaval promised, “But it should be all right, if I stay just inside the hole on the other side.”

“I have no doubt that you _won’t_ ,” Maleficent replied sardonically. “Having known you and your questionable regard for your own safety for a few years now.”

“I won’t do anythin’ _especially_ stupid, I promise.”

Maleficent arched an eyebrow and cast him a doubtful look. Shaking her head, she raised two fingers toward him.

“Are you ready?”

“Always, Mistress.”

Her eyebrow twitched upward, along with the corners of her mouth. “Into a mouse.”

The world grew enormous around him as he dissolved and shrank. His nose lengthened even further – though it remained remarkably beaky – and a bothersome ache at his rear told him that he had sprouted a tail. He sniffed the air. The scent of death still pervaded, despite the Warlock having left the room some time before. It was far more acute to him in this form.

Above him, as tall as a mountain, Maleficent stood and watched, waiting for the transformation to complete. Once his new form had consolidated, she bent down and held out a hand to him. He clambered on without hesitation, the most trusting mouse ever to draw breath, and settled himself into the middle of her palm. It occurred to Diaval that even with the latent instincts which came to him in each of his forms, he would likely not last an hour as a rodent in the wilds of the Moors.

“You make an alarming-looking mouse, Diaval.” Maleficent commented, holding him up to her face and peering at his long, sharp nose. Her eyes were as large as the moon itself this close; green shot with gold, framed with dark lashes. Diaval marvelled that it was even possible for the rapid beating of his tiny mouse heart to increase, even as it did. He wondered if she could feel it, fluttering like the wingbeats of a willow-wren against her palm.

Maleficent closed her fingers around him gently – just enough to keep him from falling – spread her wings and lifted elegantly into the air. It was a challenge indoors, and she had to duck her head sideways to avoid hitting it on the beam beside the hole. After a few moments of trying to fit both body and wings into a space which would not permit such a thing, she hissed irritably, hooked a hand around the top of the beam and lowered her wings, dangling like a ragdoll on a clothesline, hung out to dry.

She carefully tipped Diaval into the hole, holding her hand beneath it until she was certain that he had a strong foothold. He let out a little squeak and watched her, beady-eyed, as she let go of the beam and dropped like a stone, unfurling her wings at the last second to break her fall and landing neatly on the floorboards below with barely a sound.

“Go on then,” she whispered up to him urgently, “And be careful.”

Diaval squeaked again – honestly, mouse vocal cords were as good as useless – and scurried through the hole in the stone to the throne room on the other side.


	27. Chapter 27

Though Corax jerked, startled, from where she stood across the table, Aurora did not look up as Phillip came hurtling through the window and crashed inelegantly to the smooth, vine-woven floor nearby. A heartbeat later, Shrike, who appeared a tad peeved, swept through the window of the Moorland castle and landed with far greater finesse beside him.

“I _told_ you to stop squirming or I’d drop you.” she admonished him.

“You did that deliberately.” he replied, rubbing his bruised knees and scowling at her.

Shrike flicked a wing at him and sauntered over to the table. “You can’t prove a thing.”

Following her with glaring eyes, Phillip suddenly realised that his wife was standing mere feet away, bent over a finely detailed map of the Moors and toting their small son on her hip. He scrambled to his feet and joined her by the table, forgetting that he was trying to be miffed with Shrike in an instant. “Aurora! What have I missed?”

“Nothing yet,” she replied, pausing to give him a perfunctory kiss on the lips before returning to her task, “Though I’m glad that you’re here and out of danger. Where are your parents?”

“Father said that he was going to get Mother and come to your rooms. I was supposed to wait there, but… Shrike disagreed.” Phillip replied, shooting a petulant look at the utterly unintimidated Jungle Fey. “Kobus was still there, and Borra, lurking somewhere about the castle. Udo had just made it back to your rooms, and I saw Ini flying back from Ulstead as we crossed the river – I think. It was hard to tell with the wind blowing in my eyes. I imagine that they will bring Mother and Father here once they turn up.”

Wilfred had been watching Phillip in rapture from the moment that he had begun to speak, beaming and kicking his legs excitedly at his father. Phillip grinned back, taking the delighted boy from his mother. He lifted the baby, now squealing with excitement, above his head, and cooed, “You can fly! Look at you, flying there!”

“Watch his head.” Aurora muttered.

“I’m watching his head.”

“You’re giving him delusions of being a Dark Fey. What if he tries to jump out of a tree because he thinks that he can fly?”

“I’d bet money on Diaval hovered around the base of it and catching him.”

Aurora glanced at Phillip from the corner of her eye. “Probably.”

Returning her attention to the map, she pointed toward a section of the northern border and ran her finger across to the east. “We no longer need any of the guards to the north or to most of the east of the Moors. The enemy is in Ulstead.”

“So we move the Dark Fey and the Tree Guardians to the Ulsteadan border. Then what?”

“We need to be prepared for refugees.” Corax spoke up, exchanging a glance with Shrike, who nodded in agreement.

“Exactly.” Aurora replied, “The people of Ulstead. Those who live in the castle itself. The more people who can shelter here in the Moors, away from any fighting, the fewer casualties there should be. Hopefully.”

“I will lead a group of Dark Fey to evacuate the humans from Ulstead.” Shrike said, “The Warlock has almost a day remaining before he can complete the sacrifice; plenty of time to get a few thousand humans over the bridge and into the Moors. It is only a few thousand, isn’t it?”

“Eight and a half thousand in the town, give or take a few hundred. We probably don’t need to evacuate the surrounding farmland. It would probably be a good idea for me to assist in the evacuation, though. It might help in securing their cooperation, especially with those who still distrust the Moorfolk. Phillip, I want you here with Wilfred, and your parents when they arrive.”

Corax’s eyes widened. “But you promised Maleficent that you would stay in the Moors!”

“I did,” Aurora replied, “And I intend to keep that promise.”

“But-”

“I promised to stay in the Moors. At no point did I specify just _where_ in the Moors.” 

Comprehension dawned. “You’re going to the riverbank?”

“I am. I can send our people over the bridge and on their way, and still see Ulstead from there.” She sighed. “Corax, I have to know what is going on. My son and my husband are safe, but Maleficent and Diaval are still there. I can’t stay here, not knowing, as my parents throw themselves into danger. Again.”

“You _will_ stay on the Moors side of the river?”

“I did promise.” Aurora said archly. The idea of watching and waiting whilst others fought her battles was not a comfortable feeling, but a promise was a promise, and she knew her mother well enough to know that she would behave even more recklessly if she felt that Aurora was in danger.

Besides which, she had a role in all of this anyway, even if that role was not in combat. Her people in Ulstead needed her protection, and her people in the Moors needed her guidance.

She would not let any of them down.

Turning back to Corax, Aurora said, “I need you to organise temporary shelters. The clearings surrounding the Fairy Mound are probably ideal – far enough away from any fighting to be safe, but not so far that the weaker denizens of the kingdom will be unable to make it. Shrike can lead the humans there, but they will need shelter for the night. Humans are not as accustomed to sleeping under the stars as Dark Fey, even in summer.”

“Food, as well.” Phillip interjected.

“Yes, food as well. I trust that I can leave that in your capable hands, Corax?”

“Of course,” Corax replied, moving toward the window, “I will make a start immediately so that the humans will have somewhere to go as soon as they arrive.” With that, she leapt from the window in a flurry of chestnut feathers and wheeled around toward the Fairy Mound.

“Shrike, take whomever you need to round up the people. I will meet them on the riverbank.” Aurora said. She kissed Phillip and Wilfred by way of goodbye and pulled a cloak from the back of the willow-wood armchair which sat by the window, wrapping it around herself even as she moved toward the door.

“Aurora…!” Phillip exclaimed.

She whirled around to face her husband with an expression which could only be described in terms of a force of nature; a whirlwind, a great fluctuating eddy of force and fear – and much like a whirlwind, quite impossible to argue with. “Keep Wilfred safe, Phillip. He would rather kill either of you than he would me. Keep our son safe and _stay here_.”

He knew better than to argue with her.

* * *

Diaval poked his sharp little nose a fraction of an inch out of the hole, warily casting his gaze to the floor far below. His depth perception in this form was questionable, even without the dimness of the room coming into play – mice being a prey species, rather than predatory – though he _could_ tell that it was far enough away that an accidental fall would be the end of him, even if the Warlock never noticed him tumbling to his doom. He dug his tiny claws into the stone and forced himself to ignore the bas relief nature of the furthermost points of his vision.

Below him, he could make out the ornate thrones atop the dais, though with his lousy rodent eyesight, the shape of them was indistinct in the low light. What was clear, however, was that the Warlock had seen fit to seat himself upon the King’s throne as though it had always belonged to him.

He was waving his hand over something in Vætki’s hand, which burst into flame. One of the braziers, Diaval realised – she had taken it from the wall for the Warlock to light. Torch in hand, she moved around the throne room, methodically lighting the remainder of them.

The increase in light allowed Diaval to see the scene below him rather better, to his great relief. Accustomed to both the sharp acuity of his raven sight and the chromatic intensity of his human vision, the comparative difference of his eyesight in the form of a mouse was more disconcerting than he was willing to admit. Near-blindness in a potentially dangerous situation was deeply unsettling.

He crept carefully along the top of the long support beam toward the middle of the room, clinging hard enough to leave scratch marks in the wood with his sharp little claws.

Unlike the annex beside it, in which the ceiling supports were all but flush with the ceiling itself, the throne room has been constructed with a vaulted ceiling – all the better to awe and intimidate the peasants as they came to petition the kings of long ago, Diaval supposed. Still, it made his passage to the centre of the room far easier without having to squeeze between solid pieces of timber, and had the added bonus of enhancing the acoustics of the space, carrying the voices of the humans below straight to his sensitive ears.

“What do you plan to do with me?” Ingrith asked shakily. She had curled herself up on the floor before the throne, keeping her distance, and the Warlock had made no move toward her – on the contrary, it appeared as though he was ignoring her completely.

He regarded her balefully through blackening eyes. Borra’s punch had caused far more damage than was initially apparent; the Warlock’s nose was still slowly oozing blood and had swelled up to twice its usual size, with a distinctive left lean to the tip which had not existed before. Evidently, the magic of the Erlkönig did not afford him the same ability to heal himself as the Dark Fey possessed. Diaval filed that particular observation away for later; noting that a multitude of smaller injuries might prove as effective as one major one in defeating their enemy. Good to know.

“At this moment, dear sister, I plan to do nothing but wait. The moment has not yet arrived.” the Warlock finally answered.

“And when it does?”

He smiled coldly at her, though the diabolical effect was somewhat vitiated by the swelling of his face. “Then you will be more useful to me than you could ever have imagined.”

Vætki, having finished lighting the braziers, returned to the Warlock’s side with what appeared to be a plate covered in a linen cloth. She knelt by his feet and proffered her small offering, keeping her head bowed.

“What is this?” he snapped.

Vætki hunched even further, as though trying to disappear into the dais beneath her. “I found it on the table in the corner, Master. Plates of food and wine set out for the King during his audiences with the people. I wondered if you might be hungry.” she murmured.

The Warlock regarded her for a moment, then raised his hand. Diaval winced in the rafters, bracing for the impact of flesh upon helpless flesh, but it did not come. Instead, the Warlock placed his palm upon Vætkis dark head almost affectionately, stroking her hair. Moving his hand down to her jaw, he tilted her chin upward with a single finger, lifting her gaze along with it.

“You always were so good to me, Vætki.” he sighed.

Unflinching, she looked the Warlock straight in the eye and replied, “You are my Master.”

“Even now? You escaped, you and your brother – whom I have not seen since. You left me. How can I trust you after that?”

“We thought that you were dead, my lord.” Vætki whispered, lowering her eyes again.

“Such little faith.” he scolded by way of reply. There was something in his demeanour which suggested amusement, however, as though he had expected the siblings to be so foolish as to presume that he had been killed, and they had not disappointed him in doing so. 

Vætki shifted a little where she knelt. “I apologise, Master. I should not have assumed such a thing.”

He regarded her seriously, though his finger slowly began to trace her features; the line of her jaw, the shell of her ear, her eyebrows which knitted with anxiety. “You will not allow doubt to cloud your mind again.” he purred.

“No sir. Never.”

The Warlock smiled at her, as a snake might smile at its prey had it the ability to do so. He ran his finger over her cheek, ghosting over her lips, before moving to her chin and clutching it firmly to prevent her from moving.

“What a good girl you are. Doing my bidding, though you grieved all the while. A good servant. Perhaps,” he said, leaning in closer to her, “If you continue to serve me well, I will allow you to keep the next one, hm?”

“Yes please, Master.” Vætki whispered tearfully.

Diaval shuddered in his little rodent body and turned away, unable to force himself to watch any more of the scene before him. After all that the Warlock had done to Vætki – murdering most of her family and stealing her away, keeping her as a slave, violating her countless times and killing the innocent babies which resulted from those reprehensible acts – he could not fathom that she would choose to return to his side.

_Why, Vætki? Why?_

He could only assume that it was a misguided attempt to protect her brother, though he had no idea just where Ekkert was at that moment. It had to be that, or something like it. He could not make himself believe that the girl held feelings for the man who had stolen her family, her innocence, her very _freedom_.

Nor that she could have betrayed them.

“And just where do you think that _you’re_ going?” came the Warlock’s voice, sharp as a newly cast sword, from below him. Unwillingly, Diaval peered over the side of the ceiling beam again.

With the Warlock distracted, Ingrith had begun to inch herself slowly toward the outer throne room doors. She had made it all the way over to them, and in that moment, was struggling to lift the heavy length of wood which slotted between the two doors to hold them closed.

At the sound of her brother’s voice, she began to work harder, managing to raise the wooden beam several inches before losing her grip on it. It crashed back down with a deafening bang.

The Warlock did nothing. If anything, he seemed vaguely amused by Ingrith’s attempts to escape. He lifted the linen on the plate which Vætki still held by his knee and perused the food beneath it in a leisurely fashion. Finally settling on a firm green pear, he bit into it and chewed nonchalantly as he watched his frantic sister across the room.

Eventually, just as Ingrith managed to remove the beam, he waved his hand in her general direction and said to Vætki, “Stop her, will you?”

Vætki nodded, rising to her feet and quickly crossing the room. She reached Ingrith at the very moment that the Ulsteadan Queen managed to pull the doors open.

The Warlock howled with laughter.

Ingrith stood frozen in the doorway, her hands still resting on either side of the enormous doors, staring in horror at the tangled mass of thorns which barred her escape. She could not take so much as a step toward freedom, for there was no space in which to do it. Maleficent’s thorn wall abutted the doorway as though a part of the architecture.

Diaval let out a curse, which emerged as a high-pitched squeak.

The Warlock pushed himself up from the throne and hobbled painfully to the doorway. His face darkened as he approached it, a scowl replacing his initial mirth at Ingrith’s escape having been foiled as the impediment of the thorns to his own intentions became clear. “It would appear that our friends from the Moors have left us a little surprise.” he hissed. “No matter. It will prevent your escape without any effort on my part, and when the time is right, I will destroy it.” He clapped a hand on Ingrith’s shoulder convivially, as though they were merely catching up after so many years spent apart, and he had absolutely no designs on murdering her later at all.

“This is Maleficent’s doing.” Ingrith snarled. For the first time ever, Diaval found that he could not blame her for such a response – after all, had Maleficent not grown the thorns in the first place, Ingrith would have had a chance of escaping the custody of her psychotic brother. Not an excellent chance – but a chance. Now, she hadn’t a hope – he could barely have made it through the gaps in his current mouse form, never mind as a fully grown human adult.

“Hm,” the Warlock murmured, “The winged woman. She’s quite the irritant, isn’t she?” He turned, gripping Ingrith by the shoulders and forcing her to look up at him. “I’ll kill her for you. Once I have my full power, she will not stand a chance against me. Should I do it slowly?” he asked, his tone as casual as if he had been asking Ingrith if she preferred veal or venison, “Drag it out and make her suffer? She _has_ caused me rather a lot of trouble, what with stealing the baby back – not to mention coercing my servants into following her. Oh Vaetki, don’t look so alarmed – I’m _strongly_ considering forgiving you, providing that you do not fail me again, and I can hardly hold your idiot brother responsible for trailing along after you, now, can I? Well, I suppose I _can_ … but I shall make his death quick, Vaetki, _just_ for you, even if your disloyalty and meddling gave me no choice but to come all the way to Ulstead in order to fulfil my plan and seek the permanence of my power. When I truly possess the magic of the Erlkönig, I shall take control of Ulstead – but that shall only be the beginning. Before long, the entire world shall be mine to do with as I please – and the first thing I shall do will be to rid myself of the only true rival who would dare to stand against me. The winged woman will die by my hand, slowly and painfully.”

The Warlock put an arm around his revolted sister and began to describe, in graphic detail, the precise way in which he would slowly torture – and eventually kill – Maleficent. Once he had truly gained the power of the Erlkönig; she would never stand a chance against him. He would restrain her and burn her with skewers of cold iron, inside and out. He would cleave her fingers and toes from her limbs, one by one, and force them down her throat. He would set her wings alight upon her back and watch as the inferno overtook her, ignoring her screams for mercy – no, he would douse her burning feathers in vinegar, then flay the raw flesh with a braided scourge until it fell in bloodied clumps from her bones. An _experiment_ , he whispered manically at Ingrith, who had turned a wretched shade of green and was clearly fighting the instinct to vomit; an experiment to see which might happen first – death from her injuries themselves, or from her heart giving out from the pain that they caused her.

Diaval, still listening in increasing horror above them, gripped the beam below him with enough force to leave deep gouge-marks in the wood from his claws. Though the fate of Ulstead – and most likely the world – rested on defeating the Warlock before his plot came to fruition, that impetus paled in comparison to the need to keep Maleficent from harm. He could barely contain his rage within his tiny rodent body at the Warlock’s words, and the promise of such violence against his love.

He had to protect her.

Whatever it took, whatever the cost, he had to keep her safe.

* * *

The humans poured over the bridge, running, wailing, hobbling along in a sea of coarse brown linen. From above they were little more than ants, all moving in their own direction, but somehow still together as a single great entity; a liquid throng which flowed purposefully in the direction of safety.

Beside them, the flaxen blonde of Aurora’s hair could be seen glinting in the early afternoon sun as she ushered her adopted people further into the Moors. Even from a distance, keeping vigil above to ensure that none of the humans doubled back, Shrike was able to notice the immediate effect that the Queen of the Moors and Crown Princess of Ulstead had on the commoners over which she ruled; her smile, though concerned, was infectious, and the children bounced along happily when she spoke words of encouragement to them.

They _loved_ her.

They loved her, and they trusted her. Aurora was the foundation on which peace between Ulstead and the Moors rested; without her, the two kingdoms would be at war again in under a decade. A heavy burden for one so young, even in human terms – and in Dark Fey terms, hardly more than a child, for two and twenty years was barely significant in the life of one who could live in excess of three hundred.

Shrike herself had recently seen her fifty-first birthday, though a casual human observer might have guessed her to be little more than half that. Percival had lost the power of speech for five full minutes when she had told him one night; his fingers tangled in her feathers as his eyes raked across her naked form for some sign that she was, indeed, old enough to be his mother. He had turned to her in disbelief before grinning devilishly and declaring that he had always been drawn to older women, then pounced on her again like the energetic young pup that he was.

Fortunately, by Dark Fey standards, Shrike was still quite an energetic young pup herself.

She could see Percival below her, mounted on his horse on the riverbank to dissuade any of the townsfolk from moving in the wrong direction. His horse was skittish, shifting backwards and from side to side on nervous hooves, and it was clear that Percival was having some difficulty in keeping her under control. It could not be the people – the horse was accustomed to being surrounded by humans. No, she could probably smell the subtle aroma of evil which had settled over the castle since the arrival of the Warlock.

Well, animals were far more perceptive than humans.

Percival’s horse whinnied loudly and reared up without warning. He held fast, though Shrike could see that he was struggling. She tempered her instinct to swoop in and save him – her wings, larger than those of any bird and a riot of colour, would likely spook the creature and endanger Percival even further.

Before Shrike could make a decision on what to do, a tousled brown head broke away from the twisting horde and made a beeline for the frightened horse.

Holding up a hand, he approached the creature without fear, touching the tips of his fingers to the horse’s muzzle. Almost immediately, the horse lowered her front legs, dipping her nose down to the boy’s caresses. It was as though he had cast a spell over her.

Perhaps it was magic, for the boy tilted his head back and looked straight up at Shrike above him as she watched, somehow cognisant that she was watching him. A broad grin spread across his face and he waved to her.

Ekkert. Of course.

Shrike waved back and called, “Off you go to the Moors, Ekkert. Percival’s horse will not be the only one who is agitated by all of this. They will need you.”

A grave look slid across the lad’s face at her words, and he nodded, trotting off into the crowd without a backward glance.

It occurred to Shrike that the boy had probably never been truly _needed_ for anything before in his life, considering his reaction to being tasked with such a responsibility now. It left her with an uneasy feeling of regret.

* * *

Maleficent’s voice carried softly through the hole in the stone to where Diaval crept, though low enough that only his keen mouse ears could discern the words.

“Hold still. This will take far longer than necessary if you continue to squirm throughout.”

Clearly, she was no longer alone. Well, Diaval reasoned, Borra had promised to return after seeing King John to safety. She would hardly be admonishing an attacker for squirming. Whatever was going on in the annex, his Mistress was not in immediate danger.

“It’s _uncomfortable_.” a second, rougher voice grumbled at her – Borra, without a doubt. Diaval would know that voice anywhere.

“At no point did I promise that it would be comfortable. I can stop, if you would prefer it.”

“Doesn’t need to come to that. Keep going.”

“Are you sure? We could wait.”

“Ha! Not now that we’ve started. We’re almost there.” Borra broke off with a hiss.

Diaval paused in the hole, tilting his head slowly to one side. He was not entirely certain that he wanted to find his way to the other side, lest he discover something which could not be unseen.

“Are you all right?” Maleficent continued.

“It _itches_.”

Wait, what?

The raven mouse crept through the last remaining inches of the hole in the stone and poked his little head out the other side, trying to focus his useless eyes on the poorly lit scene below him.

He could make out the darkness of Maleficent’s wings easily enough. She was facing away from him, but Diaval could discern the bright glow of magic flowing from her fingertips. Before her stood Borra, wings outstretched. Maleficent had her hand above a spot at the end of his right wing, focusing her magic on it as he gritted his teeth and twitched in discomfort. She was regrowing his feathers.

Diaval felt a bit foolish. Of course she was regrowing his feathers. A flightless Borra was far less useful, far more vulnerable, than Borra with his full and impressive abilities intact. With little else to do but wait until the Warlock emerged from the throne room – strategically speaking, it made little sense to go in after him when success was far more likely with an ambush at the external doors – she was using the time wisely.

Diaval mentally admonished himself for allowing his thoughts to run away with him. He really needed to get a handle on these feelings of jealousy before he managed to ruin what little he had left.

Maleficent deserved better than that.

He let out a tiny squeak, just to let her know that he was back from the throne room. No doubt she would want to finish with Borra’s wings, but he could wait. It wasn’t the nicest of holes, and there was a rather large spider lurking somewhere in the periphery of his vision, but he had certainly been in worse places.

“I was wondering when you would announce yourself, Diaval. Come on then.” she replied, raising her left hand even as her right continued its ministrations on Borra’s wing.

Oh. She had known that he was there all along.

And apparently, she wanted him to come down.

Flecks of gold danced around her fingers, as mesmerising as a candle flame. Diaval took a tentative step forward and looked down – not that it did him any good. His depth perception was effectively non-existent in this form, and the floor might have been ten feet or fifty feet away for all that he could tell. Everything beyond his immediate periphery was two-dimensional and blurred. He was just going to have to leap from the hole and trust that Maleficent would not allow him to splat into a rodenty mess on the floorboards.

He leapt without another thought.

Air rushed past his ears even as they dissolved into mist and reconfigured; it felt as though he had left his stomach up in the hole, for it lurched horribly even as it began to change its form. The room suddenly burst into wonderful clarity as his sharp eyesight returned, revealing his Mistress and Borra standing by the stairs in the soft amber light of the braziers. His forelimbs lengthened into wings once more, the long mouse tail into his beautiful tailfeathers, and he let out a sharp _caw_ of delight as his fall became a graceful glide, down almost to the floor and then up, up, up again.

Diaval took a turn about the room, simply for the joy of it, before landing deftly on the spur of Maleficent’s wing and eyeing her cheekily, puffing out his chest proudly at his own cleverness.

“You came back in one piece, Diaval,” Maleficent commented in mock surprise, “Could it be that after twenty-seven years of life, you have finally developed a sense of self-preservation?”

He clicked his beak at her, though not especially irritably, for her fingers had found their way to the sensitive spot behind his head and were scratching fondly. Mollified, he leaned into her caress with a contented purr.

Borra cleared his throat.

Both Maleficent and Diaval startled. The raven shook himself, puffing out his feathers, and eyed the Desert Fey before him. His keen yellow eyes were flicking between them, back and forth, though his expression was inscrutable.

“Are we done with this?” he asked at last, looking away to shake his wings out and inspect the new feathers.

They were darker than his previous plumage had been, Diaval realised, and it was not merely a trick of the low light. Borra’s wings had been a dappled mess of light browns and beiges before, but were now more uniformly the darker colour. He cocked his head at them quizzically.

Borra laughed, understanding the raven’s question from his body language alone. “Sun fade. The older the feathers, the lighter they become. It’s a Desert Fey thing. Did you learn anything in there?” He tipped his head toward the hole in the wall.

Diaval bobbed his head up and down and leapt down from Maleficent’s wing so that she could give him his human form and they could plan their next move.

Two Dark Fey and a shapeshifting raven against an impossibly powerful maniac.

Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

* * *

The silence was louder than Maleficent had ever known. Even the birds had hushed, quieting their evening calls to roost; the river behind her flowing without so much as a gurgle to suggest its presence. The summer air lay still and oppressive, settling upon her like a smothering blanket.

Her breath sounded harsh and far too loud in her ears.

To the west, the sun had begun to sink into the horizon. The high, wispy clouds above caught the dying rays and reflected them, painting the sky in a panoply of oranges, pinks, and bloodlike reds. Above them, almost at its zenith, the moon shone round and bright.

It felt like a warning.

Ulstead had been evacuated in a matter of hours, and now only Maleficent, Diaval, Borra and Shrike remained to fight the Warlock. Four against one sounded far better in theory than in practice, even if one of those four was without a shred of his own magic and had stubbornly refused to leave when ordered to; they were under no illusions about what the following hours may bring.

Maleficent had positioned Borra and Shrike either side of her thorn wall, to try and keep it intact for as long as possible against the Warlock’s inevitable attack. Diaval had been instructed to remain further back – the last thing she needed was him in more danger than he insisted upon putting himself in – and he had found himself a place to the south of the throne room doors. Maleficent suspected that he was hoping to find his way to Vætki, though she questioned why he would bother with such a thing when the girl had clearly deceived them to side with her master.

She could not understand it. The Warlock had treated Vætki so dreadfully that it made Stefan’s betrayal look like a minor misunderstanding, and yet she would never have willingly submitted to his will after what he had done to her. The girl had been tortured and violated, her babies murdered before her eyes, and yet she had cleaved to the Warlock’s side from the moment he made his presence in Ulstead known.

Maleficent herself was airborne, keeping vigil above the glassy altar with slow, steady wingbeats. Her eyes were trained on the thicket of thorns that hid the throne room doors from sight, waiting for a sign that the Warlock had emerged from within. Her pulse thrummed rapidly in her ears at counterpoint to the constant thrum of her wings; the one manifestation of unease over which she had no conscious control.

So much was at stake. Ulstead, certainly, and the safety of those who lived within the kingdom, but also the wider world – the Moors and beyond. Should the Warlock succeed, there was no telling what he may do in his quest for power, and how many lives he would destroy in order to achieve his goals.

Foremost, though, was the threat to those she loved. Though Aurora and Wilfred had been evacuated to the Moors, their continued safety was uncertain. Should the Warlock win the day – whether by completing his sacrifice unimpeded or, at worst, killing the strongest of the Dark Fey in the process – then her daughter and grandson would be in danger once again.

In even greater danger, if only by proximity, was Diaval. The brave, stupid bird who refused to leave her side, even knowing that it could cost him his life – how could she go on if anything were to happen to him? She had half a mind to change him into a millipede and fly him to the far end of the Moors for his own wellbeing, but for the all too real possibility that he would be eaten by one of his kin before she could return to him.

She would defeat the Warlock – even at the cost of her own life – to protect her loved ones.

Even those who had no idea of just how much she loved them.

A low creaking caught her attention from the direction of the castle. A soft orange glow had appeared from behind the thorn wall, filtering through the densely compacted lianas and illuminating the stonework with muted spears of light above the doors.

Maleficent’s breath caught in her throat, though she made no move toward the thorns. Instead, she summoned her magic to strengthen the living wall, growing the woody vines until they were as thick as tree trunks, wound together as tightly as the threads in a woollen blanket. The glow from within the castle dimmed as the gaps between the thorns diminished, though did not disappear entirely. Her thorns, much like herself, were not infallible, even as sharp and hostile as they were. It was probably too much to hope that they alone would prevent the Warlock from carrying out his plan entirely, for the full moon would last all night and a way into the following day – though she questioned whether or not it would still work if it were not performed beneath plenilunar light, and had no desire to find out. From what little she knew of the ancient magic, the direct moonlight was important, but as with many tales, sometimes the details were lost in the telling.

Still, the thorn wall would prove an impediment if nothing else, and with some luck, might slow the Warlock down a bit. Perhaps it would be enough to prevent him from completing the blood sacrifice in time, even if she and Borra and Shrike and Diaval did not succeed in actually killing him.

Maleficent lowered her hands again. There was no more that she could do to the thorns, save protecting them from magical attacks as they happened. 

As the sound of the vines stretching and swelling ebbed and fell away, she could hear the Warlock laughing.


	28. Chapter 28

“The Master is over there.”

Aurora jerked around, startled, at the sudden voice in her ear. She had been watching as best she could from the Moors side of the river, waiting for something – _anything_ – to happen. Thus far, she had neither seen nor heard a thing. All was silent, and, aside from Maleficent’s newest wall of thorns, no visibly different to when Corax had flown her from Ulstead the day before. She could barely discern the outline of her mother, slowly beating her wings in the air above what was left of the garden, a dark spectre against the fading twilight who had not changed position in some time.

Her hand flew to her chest to calm her heart as she realised who had spoken. “Ekkert. You startled me.”

He ducked his head sheepishly. “Sorry, Your Queenness. Majesty. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the Fairy Mound with the rest of the people?”

“I can’t find Vætki.” Ekkert replied, nervously biting his lower lip.

Aurora frowned. “When did you last see her?”

“In your rooms. I went to the stables and she stayed with you. I haven’t seen her since.”

“You’ve searched the shelters?”

The boy nodded vigorously. His hair flopped into his eyes and he shook it away distractedly, fixing Aurora with a concerned expression which seemed out of place on his face. Awareness and worry were not common emotions for Ekkert, which made them all the more disconcerting to see.

“I think she’s still there.” he said softly, nodding toward Ulstead Castle, “I think the Master has her.”

“We can’t know that. I’m sure she’s safe.” Aurora replied gently, though she truly had no idea of the girl’s whereabouts. She could only hope that Vætki had made it out of the castle to another location; one of the nearby farms, perhaps.

“He has her.” Ekkert muttered, ignoring Aurora’s attempts at reassurance, “And I think he’s going to kill her this time.”

* * *

The smell of smoke came before she saw the flames.

It wafted surreptitiously into her consciousness without fanfare, subtle at first, but growing ever stronger with each passing moment. Soft crackles slowly became audible in the expectant silence.

Cautiously, Maleficent flew closer to the thorn wall, peering down at the dense foliage. A sudden rush of choking heat confirmed that which she had already suspected.

Bright tongues of viridian flame had begun to lick upward from the base of the lianas, snaking along the twisted length of them toward the clear air above. Fed by the inherent evil of the Erlkönig’s eldritch magic, magnified and exacerbated by the warped mind of Prince Fritjof of Nyrsta Vígi, it quickly began to consume Maleficent’s thorn wall. A cloud of thick black smoke billowed from within.

“Borra! Shrike! Shore up the wall!” Maleficent called down to the two Dark Fey, still positioned either side of the barrier. She sent a stream of gold toward the vines in an attempt to smother the flames, but it seemed to bounce off them instead, as though the fire was protected from magical intervention.

Shrike let loose a series of rapid bolts into the soil at her feet, trying to strengthen the thorn wall from below. She was able to coax some new life from the ground, even with the fire above, but her vines were quickly consumed along with the existing thorns. Shaking her head, she let out a curse and redoubled her efforts.

“Borra!” she called to the Desert Fey, “Do that thing with the water!”

He grunted in reply, though the sound barely carried over the now deafening roar of the fire. Kneeling by the thorn wall, he placed his hands flat on the ground and concentrated.

Flickers of gold lit up his palms from below. At first, it appeared as though nothing was happening, but after several long moments in which the fire raged beyond control, the soil began to visibly moisten. In another few heartbeats, a small puddle had appeared beneath Borra’s hands, growing larger and larger.

 _Groundwater_ , Maleficent thought, _of course_. The Dark Fey who hailed from arid climes would need a ready source of water available to them. Borra and his kin could pull water from the ground itself.

The Desert Fey stood, his palms still glowing, and raised them above his head. The water followed, drawn to his power, and swirled like a whirlwind around his head. With a great push and a mighty grunt, he sent the water straight into the burning thorn wall.

A great plume of steam belched from the inferno, sending Maleficent reeling backward to keep from being scorched. Looking down into the thorn wall, she was heartened to see that the flames had visibly lessened with just a single surge of groundwater.

“Again, Borra! Do it again!” she shouted down to him.

He nodded curtly and knelt again, beginning to summon the water from deep within the earth before he had even contacted the ground.

Suddenly, a bright green bolt of lightning shot from between the lianas and whizzed past his head, missing him by a fraction of an inch. He snarled, raising two fingers in a gesture which had most certainly been acquired from the human soldiers, and called out, “I need cover!”

Maleficent flew to his side, landing so that her body was between Borra and the thorn wall. She summoned her magic – now more green than gold, distinguishable from the magic of the Erlkönig only by the hue – and spread her wings to their widest span. Moments later, Shrike landed on the other side, raising her hands and teasing a series of thin vines from the earth. They knotted around each other to form a low, wall-like barrier, just high enough to keep a bolt of magic from hitting Borra directly.

“Just give us a few more seconds!” Borra growled. The puddle beneath his hands doubled in size as he spoke, though the effort involved was clear; he was visibly perspiring and panting as he forced his magic to work far faster and harder than normal. “All right – duck!”

Maleficent and Shrike crouched in unison as the torrent of water sailed over their heads and into the blaze.

The water came within inches of the flames, but before it could make contact, it bounced straight back again in a shimmer of iridescent light. It flew upward for a hundred feet before falling down upon them again like warm summer rain.

“No!” Borra snarled, shaking his fist in the direction of the Warlock, “The bastard has shielded them!”

Maleficent shot a single, thin bolt of magic toward the burning thorns. It rebounded as the water had and disappeared into the twilit sky. From somewhere within the inferno, a high, eerie laugh echoed disharmoniously with the rumble of the flames.

There was nothing that they could do.

“We need a new plan. Fall back to a safe distance. We will wait until he has made his way through the thorn wall – assuming that he survives the fire – and engage him once he emerges.” Maleficent said, turning away from the fire toward Borra and Shrike.

Beyond them by the castle wall stood Diaval, his pale face aglow with flickering shades of green amid the falling darkness. He was watching the blaze with a look of disheartenment, and his hands were making tiny, unconscious jerking movements as though willing themselves to turn back into wings to allow him to fly. The flames reflected in his eyes as they darted toward her in unspoken understanding.

This fight, though never assumed to be an easy one, was proving to be far more than any of them had anticipated.

* * *

Something was on fire. The acrid scent of it had made its way across the river, surrounding them with choking smoke and driving most of the Dark Fey defenders to the ground to avoid breathing in great lungfuls of it.

Aurora kept her eyes on the castle, watching anxiously for any indication of what was transpiring. The sun had set, leaving only the moonlight to illuminate her adopted kingdom. Her human eyes were not keen enough to make out anything more than the shadows of Maleficent’s thorn wall against the towering behemoth of Ulstead castle. Beside her, Ekkert stood silently, chewing his lower lip and rhythmically squeezing his hands into fists in time with the beating of his heart.

Maleficent had disappeared from the skies above the garden some time before and had not reappeared. Aurora had heard occasional snatches of sound – Maleficent’s voice, certainly, and Borra’s at one point – but for the most part, there was nothing.

Nothing somehow felt worse than something. Something, however terrible, at least had an end point.

She could discern the faintest hint of a glow, now. It backlit the wall of thorns, highlighting the sharp ruthlessness of their barbs and moving like waves upon the ocean across the stone above.

“He’s set the thorns on fire.” she whispered.

“Magical fire.” Ekkert replied. He turned to her with the eyes of the ancients. “It’s green when he uses magic. Stops it from going out easily.”

“Do you know of any way to stop it?”

The boy nodded. “Water will put it out. It needs a lot, though. More than normal fire. He’s burning the thorns away. He’ll put it out when they’re gone.”

“And then what?”

Ekkert blinked at her dimly. Aurora could almost see his consciousness slip away for a moment, leaving nothing but empty brown eyes and a shell of a half-grown man, but his awareness returned as quickly as it had left. 

“Then he will kill everyone. Kill my sister. Use someone’s blood and become a true Warlock. And then we will all die.”

“My mother will not allow that to happen.”

“He is powerful.”

“So is she.”

“He will hurt her. He will hurt her without hurting her. And he will hurt me without hurting me.” the boy murmured vaguely, “She may fail. And then we are all lost.”

Aurora clenched her jaw. “Maleficent will not fail. She will defeat him – she has Diaval, and Borra and Shrike. I believe in them. I believe in _her_.”

* * *

There was no other option but to watch the thorns burn and wait. The Warlock’s shield seemed impervious to their attacks, and the inferno was far too large, far too hot, to consider a more manual approach to dousing it.

Not that any of them had a bucket to fill anyway.

Maleficent assumed that the Warlock, Vætki and Ingrith had retreated into the throne room again, away from the heat and the smoke, to bide their time until the way was clear. It would not be long, for the fire burned far hotter than any that she had ever known, and was rapidly reducing her thicket of thorns to ash and embers on the ground.

The stars had winked into being above them, twinkling like the light of a billion campfires in the inky distance. To the east, the moon rose ever higher, drowning out the softer light of the stars with its luminous brilliance. They had an hour, perhaps a little longer, before it reached its zenith.

Maleficent stood with Diaval, Borra and Shrike by the glass altar. It seemed almost ridiculous to be standing around _waiting_ , especially for such a formidable enemy, but there was little else which could be done until the fire had burned itself out.

“It won’t be long now. We have the advantage of the high ground, so to speak. Shrike, I want you right above the door. Try to keep them from coming out for as long as possible. Borra, directly above. Help Shrike out as best you can and take the area between what is left of the thorns and the altar. Slow him down in any way that you can think of. I will engage him directly and delay him that way. Our aim here is to distract the Warlock for long enough to rescue Ingrith and Vætki; once he has nobody to sacrifice, he will either have to give up or find another victim, but he will only have a short time in which to do it before it is too late for him.”

“We are not aiming to kill?” Borra asked. He narrowed his eyes in confusion, flicking them to the waning fire and back again.

“We are aiming to keep him from assimilating the Erlkönig’s power by any means necessary. If killing him is the way to do that, then we kill him.”

“It might be the only way to do that.”

Maleficent pursed her lips. “From what Vætki has told us, sparing his life would only be temporary anyway. He will die without the Erlkönig’s power within weeks.”

“He might die with it, even at that.” Diaval interjected, “The Erlkönig’s magic doesn’t heal like Dark Fey magic does. His face is still a right mess from when you punched him, Borra. Bruisin’ and swellin’ and his nose is all wonky. You did a good job.” he grinned briefly, but the expression quickly became morose again. “Unfortunately, he could still destroy Ulstead and the Moors, even if he does only have a few weeks in which to do it.”

“He cannot be allowed to complete the ritual. Anything beyond that can be determined at the time.” Maleficent said.

Little more than cinders remained of the thorns now, glowing faintly in the darkness. The throne room doors had also succumbed to the ravenous flames, leaving behind a smoking cavity into the gloom of the throne room beyond.

Slowly, a single figure began to emerge from the choking haze, a darkened outline against the immaterial grey backdrop of smoke. With each step, the shape consolidated, revealing itself to be a small, thin creature, dragging a sword in her left hand which reached from just above her hip to the ground below.

Vætki.

“What’s she doin’ with that?” Diaval muttered, leaning close to Maleficent’s ear, “That’s the sword I hid in there.”

“You didn’t hide it very well, then, did you?” she replied archly.

“Positions.” Shrike hissed, cuffing Borra’s wing with her fingertips and tipping her head skyward, “Come on.” She spread her wings and leapt into the air, Borra following closely behind her, and the two Dark Fey quickly made their way to the places that Maleficent had assigned them.

“What about me, Mistress? I might be able to talk Vætki down, get her out of harm’s way.” Diaval whispered.

“No. She has a _sword_ , Diaval, and her loyalties are questionable at best. She might just as easily lop your head from your shoulders as come with you.”

“I’m not convinced that she can lift it enough for that.”

Maleficent glared at him. “It hardly matters. There are plenty of other things that she could amputate if not your head. No, you go back beside the castle, out of the line of fire, and if – _if_ – it is possible to rescue her _without_ it being a danger to yourself, then you may try.”

“How kind of you to give me permission, Mistress. ‘Course I’d never be such an amadán as to do anythin’ without it.”

“You do get a mouth on you when you’re nervous, don’t you Diaval?”

He snorted. “I haven’t even _begun_ to get a mouth on me yet. _Fluent_ in Gaelic swears, I am.”

Maleficent did not respond. Her attention had been drawn to the castle doors, and new movement becoming apparent in the darkness.

“Go. Go quickly.” she hissed, waving him in the direction of safety and taking flight in a single breath. Diaval, for all his daring, did as he was told, ducking low to the ground and making his way to a spot which was out of sight, but still close enough to make a swift grab for Vætki should the opportunity present itself.

The Warlock emerged as though shaped from the smoke itself, moving to stand to Vætki’s side with a leering grin upon his face. He dragged his sister along behind him, gripping her wrist with his gnarled fingers as she struggled to escape.

Ingrith had been bound, Maleficent realised – tied at the wrists and gagged with a strip of the same linen material. Her hair flew wildly about her face as she fought her brother’s grasp, and tears cut slow, silent tracks down her cheeks.

Unconcerned by Ingrith’s attempts to escape, the Warlock raised a hand above his head and renewed his magical shield. With a sheen of opalescent green it encompassed the three of them, as Maleficent, Shrike and Borra moved in.

* * *

Diaval could see everything that was happening, and he couldn’t do a damned thing.

It usually never bothered him that he was among the few in the Moors who was unable to perform any sort of magic – for even the tiniest of flower fairies had simple chlorokinetic abilities, helping flowers to bloom before their time and aiding them in lasting for far longer than they should have been able to.

A raven, though, was a rather earthy sort of creature, even though his kind were born to the sky.

His sight was acute and his instincts keen. He could outfly almost everything but the Dark Fey – and even then, he could keep pace for quite some time before he grew tired. He was agile and intelligent and very, very pretty. For a raven, he was a rather magnificent specimen, if he did say so himself.

None of it mattered now. For all of Diaval’s skills, for all of his cunning and his cleverness, there was absolutely nothing that he could do but watch and wait as others fought against evil.

He kept his eyes trained on Maleficent, who was whirling through the air like a child’s spinning top with bright eddies of gold surrounding her; a dark blur amid streaks of light. A smile crept across his face as she mustered her magic to her fingertips and sent it hurtling toward the Warlock, pulling out of her flight and soaring upward before it had even found its target.

The magic hit the shield and spread across it in a brilliant, blinding flash. Shockwaves reverberated painfully across the garden, and for a moment, Diaval dared to hope that Maleficent might have done it, might have won the day with a single blow.

But only for a moment.

The Warlock chuckled from behind his magical shield, no more damaged than it had been before Maleficent’s blast. “Try harder, faerie!” he sneered. She hissed back at him, flying back around to line herself up for a second pass. Her eyes glowed with amber fire.

The corner of Diaval’s mouth quirked in spite of himself. The fool had no idea just who he was dealing with. The power of the Phoenix combined with both the love of a protective mother and the fury of one who truly abhorred evil, having known it within herself for so long – Maleficent was a force to be reckoned with.

He ducked instinctively as Shrike flew almost directly above him, frowning at the ground below her and lifting her arms up as though raising a great weight. A new crop of vines began to emerge from the soil, thicker and denser than had ever been seen in Ulstead. They twined about themselves in front of the Warlock and burst from the ground in both directions in a circle. In moments, they were surrounded, the vines growing ever higher and knitting together into a dome.

“Vætki,” the Warlock drawled as the lianas snaked upward to close off the sky above them, “Deal with those.”

The girl swung the sword low in front of her, cleaving the vines from their stems with the deadly sharp blade. They fell in heaps upon the ground before her, writhing about for a few seconds before stilling. 

Without waiting for an order, Vætki quickly picked her way over the uneven plants to the solid ground on the other side. She turned and held out a hand to Ingrith, who merely glared at her. Undaunted, Vætki gripped the Queen’s elbow to guide her and keep her steady as she traversed the newly created obstacle. At no time did she so much as glance at Shrike above her, for all that the Jungle Fey audibly cursed her.

The Warlock scaled the fallen vines in a casual, almost relaxed fashion, chuckling as he kicked one out of the way. With a flick of his finger, he set fire to them as he walked away, sauntering toward the glass altar as the vegetation behind him went up in smoke.

With a snarl of irritation, Borra sent a blast of magic toward the ground ahead of him to summon plant life of his own. Dark, snakeline vines burst from the ground as though manifestations of his own rage, dancing in serpentine undulations before their Dark Fey master. 

Borra did not use the vines as a barrier, as Shrike had done, though. Raising his hands and plunging them downward again, he sent the vines straight back down into the soil, digging their tips into the earth in great furrows. Roaring with the effort, Borra coaxed them out and back in again and again, leaving deep fractures in the earth. Far from an easy, safe passage, the Warlock now had a rocky, pitted, every-changing landscape to traverse before he could reach his sacrificial altar.

The moon crept every higher.

The Warlock turned and hissed at Borra, sending a shock of magic straight for him. The Desert Fey swerved, missing the blast by a hair’s breadth, but the break in his concentration stopped the vines. They wavered and quietened. Though the earth remained fractured, the Warlock had passage over the broken earth without concern for it collapsing beneath his feet. He continued to fling magic at Borra as he and Vaetki muscled Ingrith along the rough ground, preventing him from continuing his efforts to stop them.

Shrike took up the cause, coaxing Borra’s plants into motion again. The Warlock began to shoot at her as well, alternating between them at first, and then firing magic at Borra with his left hand and Shrike with his right simultaneously.

Maleficent swooped in, blazing with the righteous fire of her Phoenix blood. She blasted the Warlock over and over, sending bolt after bolt of magic at him in the hope of penetrating his shield. It shimmered with each hit, but held, stubbornly protecting him, his servant, and his hostage. Despite the combined efforts of each of the three Dark Fey, the Warlock drew ever closer to the glass altar.

Diaval looked around feverishly for something, _anything_ , which he might be able to use to help. It even occurred to him, briefly, that he could simply barrel in and tackle the Warlock around his knees – it would slow him down, if nothing else – but for the realisation that he would be seen and killed before he had gotten within ten feet of his foe.

Still, the idea festered in his brain; within his grasp, but not quite. An answer. A solution. He hoped that it would come to him in time.

The Warlock stopped as the ground flattened out again on the edge of the glass circle, sweeping his hand between Vætki and Ingrith to indicate that the girl should hold his sister and keep her from escaping. Ingrith made as though to run, but a look from Vætki and the girl’s hand on the hilt of the sword kept her frozen in place.

Snarled manically, the Warlock funnelled a stream of crackling magic toward Maleficent, who was pumping flames of bright green toward him from each hand, alternating from left to right so that the blows came unceasingly. Barely feet from her it suddenly split, sending lightning in three different directions. She pulled her wings against her body to avoid it and dropped, fanning out her wings mere feet from the ground. Another volley came her way almost instantly, and for a moment, Diaval’s heart leapt into his mouth; she was distracted. Had she seen it?

Maleficent’s hand shot up, releasing defensive magic in an arc from the ground to the sky. It countered the Warlock’s barrage easily, neutralising his attack even as she took to the sky once more.Her form was almost indistinguishable in the inferno of her rage, as though she might burn to ashes and resurrect herself from anger alone.

Diaval saw Vætki pull Ingrith to the ground as the world appeared to explode; Maleficent and the Warlock disappeared behind blinding flashes of magic as they attacked each other simultaneously, roaring and shrieking with the intensity of the assault. Diaval raised his arm in front of his face to shield his eyes from the brightness, though he was unable to tear his attention away. He followed the illuminated shape of his love, wincing with each blast which made contact, and silently cheering each of her strikes.

Finally, almost as though it had been preordained, all fell silent.

Maleficent hovered in the air above the altar, breathing heavily. The snakeskin wrapping around her hair had come loose, dangling like a streamer from her right horn and burning merrily at the end; she ripped it away and sent it twirling and smoking toward the ground. Her clothing was singed and the primaries on her left wing – always the left, Diaval noted, always the left one – were a bit charred on the ends, but she seemed otherwise unharmed.

He let out a deep breath that he hadn’t realised that he had been holding.

The Warlock had fared far better, thanks to his shield of stolen magic. Though Vætki and Ingrith lay curled at his feet with eyes like saucers, they all remained uninjured.

Unstoppable.

“I cannot allow this.” Maleficent said. “I cannot allow you to complete this ritual and destroy the world in a quest for domination.”

Even from a distance, Diaval could see her teeth clench; her words were far more confident than her feelings. The Warlock may not know her well enough to discern her true thoughts, but her raven certainly did. 

Maleficent was terribly afraid.

Not for herself, certainly, for she had little fear of her own mortality. No, Maleficent was afraid of the bigger picture, of the fact that she could find no way to stop the Warlock before he had gained the true power of the Erlkönig. If she could not stop him now, then she stood no chance later.

“I don’t recall asking your permission, faerie.” the Warlock sneered, “Now go away, you annoying gnats.” He flicked a hand carelessly, sending a quick bolt of magic away.

Unprepared and unaware, it hit Shrike full on the chest without warning. She dropped from the sky, landing on the amputated vines. Her head hit the ground with a crack.

“Shrike!” Borra shouted. The Jungle Fey lay still where she had fallen, though Diaval could see her chest rising and falling. As Borra dove down to land beside her, she rolled her head from side to side and groaned. He barely managed to roll her onto her side before she vomited.

“Get her out of here!” Maleficent called to him, “Get her to safety!”

Borra nodded, scooping Shrike into a cradle hold and spreading his wings. “Don’t you dare throw up on me.” he warned. He took off, making a beeline for the Moors.

Diaval watched as Maleficent squared her shoulders, realising with a stab of horror that she intended to take the Warlock on without the backup of the other two Dark Fey. He was the only one left who could help her.

The only one who could help. It hit him like a windowpane to the head at full flight.

“Mistress!” he called to her. She looked over in alarm, her eyes darting from him to the Warlock as she realised that he had drawn attention to himself and made himself a target.

Diaval began to run toward the side of the castle, away from the reach of the Warlock’s brutal magic, and beckoned to Maleficent to follow him. The Warlock chuckled viciously.

“Go on, little faerie. You cannot win! Run away with the human!”

“Please, Mistress!” Diaval called to her. His plan could only work with her playing a vital role, and they had so little time remaining before it was too late. “I need you. Please!”

Though the Warlock’s chuckle had transformed into savage, raucous laughter, Maleficent heeded Diaval’s plea. With a glare toward their powerful enemy, she followed Diaval to the relative safety of the castle.

* * *

“What happened?”

Aurora knelt by Shrike as Borra lay her on the ground, observing the unfocused rolling of the Jungle Fey’s eyes and the deep burn on her chest with horror.

“Warlock. Caught her by surprise. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill her, but that’s Shrike for you. She’d survive just about anything through stubbornness alone.” Borra replied. He held Shrike’s chin in one hand and peered into her eyes, trying to get her to look at him. Her pupils were uneven, though she did try to force herself to make eye contact in between confused blinking.

“Will she be all right?” Aurora asked in concern. “I know that she can heal herself, but that’s a serious burn. And – I’m assuming that she hit her head?”

“Hm.” Borra confirmed, “Quite hard. She’s rattled her brain a bit.”

Aurora snapped her head up at the sudden sound of Dark Fey wings. For a moment, she allowed herself to hope that her mother had joined them from across the river, that she might have proven victorious in the few minutes since Borra and Shrike had left her, but she quickly realised that the wingbeats were coming from the wrong direction.

“Udo!” she called as the Tundra Fey’s snowy wings came into sight. “Oh thank God.”

Udo came to land beside them, frowning in concern at Shrike. “She is injured?”

“Fight with the Warlock. Which continues as we have a chat here, by the way, so let us not chat for too long. I’ll ask where you have been later.” Borra replied curtly, “For now, can you take her to the healers? She will recover, but she will recover faster with their help.”

“Of course.” Udo replied as he crouched to take Shrike in his arms. “You are going back?”

“The Warlock is terrifyingly powerful, even without having fully taken on the magic of the Erlkönig. Maleficent alone cannot defeat him. I’m unsure as to whether my help will make a difference, but I am going back regardless.”

Aurora reached for Borra’s hand. “Do what you can. Even if all that you can do is delay him until it is too late. I can call up the castle guards, if you think that it would help?”

Borra shook his head. “They would be wiped out in minutes. We cannot ask men to die for the sake of buying a few minutes of time.”

“There is nothing that I can do?”

“There is.” Borra replied, “Stay here. Don’t give Maleficent a reason to be distracted. Stay safe, and keep your people safe. One way or another, this will be over soon… but should we lose, should the Warlock complete the sacrifice, your people will need your leadership more than ever.”

Though her eyes filled with tears, Aurora nodded firmly and gave the Desert Fey’s hand a squeeze. “Very well,” she said, “Godspeed, Borra.”

* * *

“I have an idea,” Diaval said, drawing her close, “But I don’t think you’re goin’ to like it very much.”

Maleficent held his gaze unflinchingly, though she narrowed her eyes at him in concern at the serious expression on his face. “Tell me anyway.”

“Your magic can’t get through the Warlock’s shield – it just bounces off and doesn’t touch him at all.” Diaval began.

“I know that already.”

Diaval looked at her impatiently. “But Borra punched him. Right in the face, even though he was still shieldin’ himself. It was as though the shield wasn’t even there.”

“Please tell me that your plan is not to waltz up to a magical madman and punch him in the face. That is reckless, even for you.” Maleficent replied scathingly, unwilling to admit that the harshness of her tone was in any way a mask for the rapidly rising fear which had begun to make itself known within her. A Diaval plan seldom accounted for his wellbeing.

“No, not that. But the shield only shields from magic.”

“And this revelation has resulted in a plan.”

“It has. See, his magic isn’t comin’ from him, is it? It’s comin’ from the Erlkönig on his back, barely alive. But if we kill what’s left of the Erlkönig…”

“Then we cut off the Warlock’s magic, and with it, his defences.” Maleficent finished. “It makes sense. But how do you propose to do that?” _Without ending up dead_ , she added to herself.

“You change me into my beautiful raven self and I’ll fly in with talons and beak. I’ll be able to get past his shield because I won’t be usin’ magic to do it.”

Maleficent pulled back in horror. “He’ll kill you before you get within ten feet of him!” she hissed.

“Not if you’re distractin’ him.” Diaval insisted.

“This is lunacy. Utter lunacy.”

“I can get up close to him as a raven. Rip out what’s left of the Erlkönig’s brain and kill him properly. Fritjof will lose his magic and you can overpower him.”

“And he will likely kill _you_ in the process. Absolutely _not_.”

“What else would you suggest, then? Hittin’ him with magic isn’t workin’ – he’s all but _ignorin’_ you! My plan will work. As soon as that moon is overhead, he’ll sacrifice Ingrith and it’ll be too late!”

“Your plan may work, but at what cost? You will _die_ , Diaval!” she gasped, “You will die…”

“So what? So I die. So I die and I know in my last breath that you and Aurora and Wilfred will all be safe. That’s somethin’ worth dyin’ for, and if that’s what I have to do, then that’s what I have to do.” Diaval paused, looking deeply into her eyes. He reached out and took her hands, stroking circles at the base of her thumbs with his own. Maleficent shook her head, a thousand words on the tip of her tongue but none able to emerge to contradict him.

“We all have to have a purpose in life, Mistress.” Diaval said softly, “A reason to exist. Maybe for some of us, the reason we begin to live at all is because our purpose is to die to protect the ones we love. I’m all right with that. Really. What other use is a raven who is too big for his britches anyway? I swore an oath to protect you, whatever you needed, and even when you freed me I promised myself that I’d never stop doin’ that.”

Maleficent fought back a sob of rage, of inevitable, unstoppable grief still to be fulfilled, and instead turned that rage upon her raven. “So that’s it, then? I just wave my hand and watch you fly off to almost certain death? How can you possibly expect me to be all right with that, Diaval? Intentionally standing back, _holding_ back, allowing you go out there and do what is arguably the bravest but easily the most _foolish_ thing that you’ve ever done!?”

“Not even close.” Diaval shook his head, smiling slightly. The damnable creature even had the audacity to let out an indulgent huff of laughter, as though her heartache at the thought of his death was somehow amusing to him.

“Whatever do you mean? You cannot honestly suggest that trying to decerebrate a half-dead Elf King with little more than talons and beak whilst his conjoined psychopath shoots bolts of deadly magic in every direction is anything but incredibly brave and _breathtakingly_ foolish!” 

She was breathing hard, unmoored in her desperation to convince him not to go ahead with his plan, to stay with her and fight beside her, to survive to see another sunrise by her side. It could not be the only way. _There had to be another way_.

Diaval fixed her with a penetrating gaze. It was as though she could see the depths of the universe within the blackness of his eyes, those unspoken secrets held locked within, and for the first time she truly _understood_. Terror coiled in her belly like a snake about to strike. 

This was her fault. 

She had driven him to this, this insane desire to be something worthwhile to her, to ensure her safety by his own sacrifice. A thousand times over the years she could have, she _should_ have told him just what he was to her and taken that step, crossed that threshold with him. 

So many opportunities lost to them because she was afraid. Because she could not be brave, as he was being brave now.

“It’s brave and it’s foolish, you’re not wrong there.” he murmured, raising her hands to his lips and pressing a featherlight kiss to her trembling knuckles, “But in some ways, flyin’ toward certain death is less frightenin’ than doin’ somethin’ forward, somethin’ that changes everythin’. You never quite know what the outcome is goin’ to be, and sometimes that’s even more terrifyin’ than facing a known danger. But Mistress, it’s not the bravest and most foolish thing I’ve ever done, because this is.” 

Though his expression spoke of apprehension, he released her hands and brought one his own to cradle her jaw without hesitation, stroking her cheek gently with his thumb. “I don’t want to imagine my life without you in it, and if dyin’ is how I can keep you safe, then that’s what I’m goin’ to do. All these years, and you still don’t know what you are to me.”

She bit her lip, fighting the tears which threatened, hot and prickling, in her eyes. How could he think for even a moment that his death would cause her anything but pain? What was survival, what was _life_ , without her beloved bird by her side?

Her beloved bird, who now looked upon her as one might the most beautiful sunset that had ever graced the sky, with such a deep and aching longing that his tender smile stole the breath from her lungs. His gentle eyes gazed intently into her own as he whispered, “You’re… you’re the scent of flowers on the breeze. The strength of the headwinds and the warmth of the sun. The stars twinklin’ in the night sky and the soft fallin’ of the rain. My nights and my days. Everythin’ begins and ends with you. You’re my whole world, Mistress. My everythin’. I love you, gods above I _love_ you, more than I could ever hope to express just in words, and if givin’ my life is what I need to do to keep you safe in this world, then I will. Willingly.” 

Those dark, soulful eyes blurred as her tears came unbidden, coursing down her sharp cheeks and into his hand. Her lower lip trembled at the injustice that this moment marked the end of something which _should_ have been, but for her own stubbornness, her intractable blindness, instead of the beginning of their lives anew. Now, at last, she could look upon him with impunity, and read the meaning which lay bare upon his pale face; for all the times that he had seen beyond her mask and into the depths of her being, now, _now_ , she could at last see _his_ truth, and it was as beautiful as the heavens themselves.

He loved her, as she loved him. How had she failed to see it before?

Slowly, carefully, he leaned into her, and for the first time in decades she found that she did not fear the touch of a man. Instinct did not tell her to pull away as the warmth of his breath mingled with her own, or as his free hand wound around her back to draw her closer. Even as she realised what he meant to do, she found herself welcoming it, longing for the gentle sweetness of his touch upon her skin.

Her lips parted slightly as his softly brushed against them, tentative but longing. Her own arms found their way around him of their own volition, her hands threading through his ebony locks and stroking tiny circles on the small of his back.

He grew in confidence, leaning into her and deepening the kiss, moaning softly as she welcomed him. His hand tangled in her hair as he drew her further in, sliding the other up the length of her back to rest in the space between her wings. She held firm to him, pulling him closer so that not a breath could pass between their bodies.

She had been so foolish.

The fierce ache of grief for the time she had wasted burned as strongly as the ache of her desire, vying for dominance within her. They could have had this long ago, if not for her – the urgent longing with which Diaval kissed her spoke of nights spent dreaming impossible dreams of all the ways in which he could love her, promises whispered into the wind, visions of what could be if not for fear and doubt.

Her eyes slid closed, hiding the world from her sight so that all that remained was the warmth of his embrace, the sweet softness of his lips upon her own, and the scent of him surrounding her.

For a moment, for a single, beautiful moment, nothing else in the world existed but them.

But only for a moment.

Diaval broke away reluctantly, returning once, twice, three times to kiss her again, as though he knew that he would have no other chance again. Finally, he held his forehead against hers for a breath, tightening his hold around her almost desperately, then stepped back. His eyes shone with unfallen tears, and Maleficent felt her throat tighten at the expression within them – an expression which saw no further than the minutes ahead of him. 

“Change me.” he croaked desperately. “ _Change me_.”

“ _Diaval_ …”

“Please, Mistress. It’s the only way. Please change me.” He smiled sadly and offered her a little shrug. “The world needs savin’. Change me…”

A tear began to draw a slow path down her cheek even as she raised two fingers, her gaze never leaving his own. In all of her days, and after all that she had survived – the loss of her parents, Stefan’s betrayal, Ingrith’s war – she had never known such exquisite agony. It was as though her very blood had turned to iron and was burning everything in its wake. She wanted to run, snatch Diaval up from where he stood before her and flee on frantic wings to somewhere far away, where nobody could ever find them.

Where nobody could ever hurt him.

Her voice was barely audible, even as she forced herself to speak the words which would send her love to his death.

“ _Into a bird_.”

* * *

The Warlock had reached the glass altar in their brief absence. Ingrith lay upon it still bound and gagged, her eyes enormous with fear and darting every which way in desperate search of a saviour. She locked on to Maleficent as she took wing from beside the castle, watching her as she returned to the air above the altar. The Queen of Ulstead’s expression changed from fearful to terrified on seeing the look on Maleficent’s face; grief, no doubt, with a hint of hopelessness for good measure.

Away from them, out of sight, a small black shape flew upward and landed silently on the ruined wall of thorns.

Vætki stood at the foot of the altar with the iron sword in hand with her eyes trained on Ingrith’s prostrate form. She did not move – even the approach of the Warlock failed to make her flinch. It was as though she had been carved of marble and left as a silent testament to the whims of man.

Maleficent came around almost on her side, turning sharply from the north and flying straight for the Warlock as though trying to knock him from his feet. She sent a barrage of magic ahead of her, shot after shot, hoping that one of them might find a way through the shield and save Diaval from having to go through with his plan.

Alas, once again, her magic did nothing to disable him. The Warlock raised his hands above his head, sending a green ripple through his magical shield as he reinforced it. Though her aim was true, and truer still for the desperation that she felt in her heart, it was to no effect.

The Warlock looked up to gauge the angle of the moon, and a slow, toothy grin, colder than the frost of winter, spread across his face.

“Give up, faerie!” he called to her, “The moon has reached its zenith! You cannot stop me now!”

With that, he reached into his robes and retrieved a dagger, bejewelled and shining as befitting the prince that he once had been. The blade glinted, reflecting the cold moonlight from its deadly surface.

Ingrith screamed.

“Oh, do shut up, sister.” the Warlock snapped, “How did you _think_ I was going to spill your blood?”

He raised the dagger above his head with both hands, tilting his gaze upward to the moon. “I invoke the ancient magic,” he droned dramatically, “Let the blood of my father strengthen the sacrifice. Let the magic of the Erlkönig become my own!”

Maleficent, still hovering above, sent another half-hearted volley in the Warlock’s direction as she searched the sky for Diaval. She hoped that the Warlock’s penchant for theatrics would continue for a few more moments; the words themselves were actually pointless, as the spell itself was entirely nonverbal, but the longer the man pontificated, the more time her raven had to sneak up on him.

A tiny flicker of movement caught her eye. Diaval had spread his wings and was gliding soundlessly toward the Warlock from behind, arcing around to land precisely on the ruined head of the Erlkönig.

“Blood of my father, shed from my sister…!” the Warlock intoned, oblivious to the presence of the black bird on his back. His hands resolutely gripped the blade.

Diaval bent his head to the parchment-thin skin which covered the remaining brain of the Elf King. He dug his sharp beak in, piercing it in a single movement, and began to tear vigorously at the bleeding wound with his talons, opening it further.

Vætki’s eyes flicked to him for a fraction of a second before returning to Ingrith, still screaming on the altar.

Bits of brain and bloodied flesh flew from behind the Warlock, splattering on the glasslike ground around him. Diaval’s movements quickened, precision and stealth losing out against swiftness. His wing brushed against the back of the Warlock’s neck.

With a roar, the Warlock whirled around, spraying blood in an arc around the altar. He grabbed at Diaval, seizing his tailfeathers between his finger and thumb. He tugged, trying to pull the bird from his back, but Diaval dug in his sharp talons and intensified his efforts to destroy the remains of the Erlkönig’s brain.

The Warlock’s dagger whistled through the air, catching Diaval’s exposed belly with a wet thump. Diaval wailed and threw his head back, staggering as the Warlock ripped the blade away.

“Diaval!” Maleficent shrieked. She sent a blast of magic at the Warlock, but it absorbed into his shield and dissipated.

Once again, the dagger sliced upward and caught the unfortunate raven in the abdomen. This time, when the Warlock pulled it away, Diaval came with it, impaled on the cold metal and bleeding profusely. Even from a distance, Maleficent could see the pink of his organs spilling out around the blade. An ungodly cry wrenched from her throat. 

She lined herself up to fly directly at the Warlock, ready to fight him hand to hand if she had to. 

For Diaval.

His sacrifice would not be in vain.

The Warlock shook the dagger and Diaval fell as though in slow motion, his beautiful black body as limp as a rag doll. He landed in a heap in a sickening splatter of blood.

It was as though time itself had stopped.

She could hear her heart, pounding frantically in her ears. Her voice, screaming Diaval’s name, the sound tearing from her throat, begging him to live, to hold on, not to leave her.

He lay still upon the ground.

Tears blurred Maleficent’s vision as she flew at the unsuspecting Warlock, screaming her anguish as though the sound of it alone would overpower him. Her talons connected with his head, sending him flying onto the glassy ground below, then wheeled around for another pass.

The Warlock stood, shrieking at her. Crackles of green surrounded his hands, fizzing and spitting erratically.

“Was that your birdie, faerie? Your pet? What a shame.” he mocked. He bent and picked up Diaval’s prone form, still weeping blood, and reached back as though to throw him. “Perhaps you’d better go and get him, then?”

The Warlock’s arm shot forward, sending Diaval hurtling through the air in a flurry of erratic magic. His poor little body flew upward toward the castle, far further than an ordinary human man should have been able to throw him, and smashed through the glass of one of the upper storey bedchambers.

Howling with laughter, the Warlock summoned the Erlkönig’s magic anew, wielding it as though a god of lightning. It sparked in his hands as Maleficent came around, viridian bright, and he laughed and laughed in the face of her grief.

And then the magic vanished.

“What?!” Fritjof shrieked. He waved his hands around, opening and closing his fists, trying again and again to pull power from the Erlkönig on his back. There was no response; it was as though the magic within the Elf King had never existed at all.

Maleficent stifled a sob as she realised what had happened. He had done it. Diaval, bless him, that brave, beautiful, wonderful bird, had done it. He had killed the Erlkönig, and with him, Fritjof’s ability to use magic.

He had saved them all.

All but himself.

Fritjof rounded on Vætki in a panic, his eyes darting from Maleficent to Borra above him in anticipation of an attack against which he could no longer defend.

“Vætki! We must – find another magical creature – to take the magic from – before it is too late! Come on, girl!” Fritjof wheezed. “Come on!”

“No.”

Fritjof stared at her in alarm, bending at the waist as though in terrible pain. “What do you mean, no? You are – my servant, girl! I will kill you – if you d-disobey me!”

“I mean no.” Vætki replied, hauling the sword to her shoulder, “And I don’t care if you kill me. Not when I can do this. For Ekkert. For Iáaki and Beñat. For Alazne. And for me.” she whispered, using her entire body to swing the sword.

Fritjof had little time to react as the blade whistled through the air toward him, but he moved like lightning. In a flash, he stood, whipping his dagger from its sheath and hurling it in the same movement toward Vætki. It struck true, biting savagely into her exposed throat and severing the artery within. Blood gushed like a fountain, soaking her tunic crimson in less than a second.

It did nothing to stop her momentum.

The sword cleaved into Fritjof’s exposed belly, slicing a deadly wound into his side and only stopping as the blade made contact with his spine. He howled, collapsing to the ground with the sword still embedded within him, his breath shuddering in and out as he lay dying.

Vætki fell moments later. Unlike Fritjof, she breathed no more.

From above Maleficent – she had not known that he had returned – Borra suddenly appeared, taking in the carnage below him with an expression of deep regret. He flew down at once and landed beside Vætki, then looked up at Maleficent in the air above. “Go to him!” he called, “Vætki is beyond help, but you may still save Diaval!”

With a sob, she nodded. As she angled her wings and raced for the chamber into which Diaval had been thrown, begging the gods and the universe itself to find him alive when she reached him, she saw a flash of blonde hair streaming behind a woman on the Moors side of the river, who was running full pelt on the riverbank for the bridge to Ulstead. _Aurora_.

She had to save Diaval. If not for herself, then for her daughter, so that she might not lose the only true father that she had ever known.

Not tonight.

Not ever, if she could help it.

Flying swiftly to the upper chamber, Maleficent launched herself through the broken window, oblivious to the broken glass slicing at her exposed skin and the blood flowing in rivers down her hands, leaving splatters of crimson on the hardwood. 

She scoured the room for her fallen companion, biting back a cry as she found his feathered black form lying lifeless in a pool of his own blood, bathed in bright moonlight. His innards spilled haphazardly from a gaping wound in his chest and abdomen, and she could see the fluttering of his little heart from within a coagulated clot of bloodied flesh. One wing lay twisted at a horrifying angle beneath his broken body, the other splayed away from him as though flying. His eyes were half open but unseeing; he was unconscious, his injuries too severe for his mind to allow him to experience it.

Though he still breathed, his gasps were shallow and erratic; Diaval was _in extremis_ , and had little more than minutes left to live.

Maleficent knelt beside him on the floor, caring little that his blood was soaking into her skirt and mingling with her own. Her breath caught as she saw the true state of him.

She had never seen anyone sustain such horrifying injuries and recover.

“Don’t you _dare_ die, Diaval.” she ordered his prone form, her tremulous voice betraying the grief which had already begun to consume her. “You do _not_ get to make grand proclamations and go about kissing people and then conveniently dying heroically to avoid the consequences.”

Placing her hands on his trembling body, she drew her healing magic from deep within and pushed it into him. It swept about him in a misty gold glow, but seemed to struggle to achieve anything, as though unsure as to which of his extensive injuries to heal first. The pouring blood, the damaged organs, the enormous hole in his stomach – each and any of them alone would be enough to kill him.

Biting her lip in concentration, Maleficent forced more and more of her magic into Diaval’s little body. “Heal him, damn you,” she whispered urgently to the flickering flames of gold, “Mend what is broken and bring him back to me.”

A pained wheeze began to issue from Diaval’s throat as he inhaled, followed by a terrible gargling as he released each breath.

Above him, Maleficent’s eyes began to fill with tears. “You are _not allowed to die_ , Diaval!”

The raven cried out weakly. Without warning, he dissolved into a fog of black mist, before reemerging as a wolf.

He whimpered.

Maleficent leaned over him again and renewed her efforts. She reached down as far into herself as she could go, finding reserves of magic which she had never before had to utilise. As she began to pour it into Diaval, caring little for just how much she was taking from herself, he once again changed forms. This time, Diaval the dragon emerged from the mist, his massive bulk taking up most of the small bedchamber. The bleeding began anew.

“Heal! Heal, Diaval!” Maleficent cried, forcing back sobs even as her tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. In a matter of a few minutes, he transformed again, first to his bear-self, and then to his more recent rabbit form.

“No no no, not a rabbit, they die too easily, you stupid bird! Be something _strong_!”

She could feel her magic beginning to drain, something which had never happened to her before. Still, she continued to fill him up with it, such that he glowed in an ethereal fashion, her magic slowly knitting together bone and organ and sinew.

Too slowly.

Diaval transformed again, taking on his human form, as his breath began to rattle. It stopped and started, returning at irregular intervals with a bracing gasp as he fought desperately for his life.

Maleficent bent her head over his chest, her tears mingling with the sticky blood which still coated him. There was only one thing left that she had not yet tried. Only one way remaining which might save her beloved raven.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled every remaining mote of her magic from the deepest depths of her being and began to slowly feed it into him. Downward, deeper, past the injuries and into the very tiniest parts of his body, where her magic did not yet dwell.

She coaxed those tiny parts insistently, pushing her magic toward them, into them, making them accept that which had only ever teased their existence before.

“Take it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “ _Take_ it. Make it your own. Make it yours and _use_ it. _Heal yourself_.”

Cajoling, pressing, demanding a hundred times, a thousand times, Maleficent thrust ever more magic into him, feeling her inner reserves draining and growing weaker with each passing second.

She did not stop.

At last, she felt a change as the very smallest parts of Diaval’s body accepted her gift, embracing her magic and acknowledging it as a new part of themselves. Her magic, now his own, for however long he had left in the world.

His whole body shuddered violently, his pale face growing even paler still, and his form changed once more. The surging blood from his half-healed wounds slowed, then finally stopped.

Diaval exhaled, a long, painful, quivering breath.

Surrounded by the silvery light of the full moon, Maleficent laid her head down upon his chest and wept.


	29. Chapter 29

Light was playing against his closed eyelids, dappled as though through the leaves of trees. A soft breeze, alive with the fragrance of late summer blooms, caressed his face with gentle finesse, causing a tiny smile to spread across his face.

Overall, the afterlife seemed entirely pleasant, and Diaval had not yet even opened his eyes.

Silken feathers stroked his naked torso as he shifted – he was in a bed, he realised, which was a rather strange feature of this eternal netherworld. Did the dead need to sleep? It was not something which he had ever considered before – not that he had really given an enormous amount of thought into the specifics of life after death, mind you.

But feathers – _feathers_! He should not be able to feel feathers brushing gently against his bare skin, not if he was in his raven form. It must mean that he was wearing his human shape, which was odd. Eternity in a human form? Perhaps he was in some form of purgatory. Apparently dying heroically was still not enough to have one admitted into the better variants of the next world.

Of course, if he was in a human shape, then the feathers that he could feel were not his, but those of his Mistress… and yet, they did not feel quite as hers did. They felt like his. They _smelled_ like his, though he could detect a hint of the sweet airy fragrance of Maleficent’s feathers intermingling with his own scent.

Diaval was thoroughly confused, even as he drifted gently at the fulcrum of consciousness, unable to quite separate reality from a pleasant, albeit unusual, dream.

Nothing hurt, which was a rather welcome discovery. Diaval was certain that the Warlock had torn his organs from a gaping wound in his stomach at one point. He distinctly recalled the blood gushing from his body and taking with it his last remaining hold on his life, but from what he was able to tell from sensation alone, he was once again whole.

He slowly clenched his hand into a fist and released it again – yes, definitely in a human shape, to have hands to close like that – and brought it upward to where the feathers tickled his cheeks. He stroked them carefully, enjoying the feeling of them threading through his fingers, but it took only moments for confusion to take hold.

He could _feel_ them – the perception of stroking and pulling gently on each individual feather, awakening them from their slumber. With each brush of his fingers, he felt the sensation twofold, from both hand and wing.

Diaval’s eyes flew open.

He was in one of the bedchambers in Ulstead Castle – he would recognise those ridiculously ornate ceiling roses anywhere. Since when did the next world look like _Ulstead_ , of all places?

There was an underlying tang of blood in the air, subtle beneath the cloying hint of flowers. His own, no doubt, but it did not smell fresh. His skin lacked the bothersome stickiness which should have come with drying blood, as well.

In fact, his skin lacked _anything_. But for a single bedsheet of finely woven linen which covered him to his navel, Diaval realised that he was completely naked.

Ulstead Castle, bizarre scent combinations and confusing nudity. All right then.

Either the netherworld was a bitterly disappointing place and he was doomed to an eternity of being stuck in one of the ugliest places that he could have imagined, or…

…he wasn’t dead.

Was that even possible? He had been mortally injured, already occupying the liminal space between life and death and slipping ever closer to the latter. He recalled the look on Maleficent’s face above him mere moments before losing consciousness entirely, and the devastation written upon it had told him as much. He was dying. He was dead. There was no way that he could have survived.

Beneath him, the feathers twitched irritably.

He turned his head to his left in confusion as instinct brought his wing up and into his line of sight.

_His wing._

Feathers as dark as night with primaries as long as a broadsword, gleaming in subtle greens and purples, _his_ feathers, but larger than life.

 _Fey_ wings.

Diaval extended the wing out as far as it would go, marvelling that something so utterly magnificent could be his to command. An ebony horn jutted from his wing joint, curling back toward his shoulder, and the wing itself was easily the length of his entire body. It was glorious. A sublime creation of natural engineering, a thing of beauty, form and function, the embodiment of freedom itself – and somehow, _somehow_ , his own.

Trembling with nervous delight, Diaval reached his hand up further, running his fingers through his dark locks until they met the splendid horns which rose from either side of his head, their callused contours curling in and out again, finishing in a sharp point at each end.

He was _Fey_. _How was he Fey?_ He had lacked the magic to be able to hold the shape when Maleficent had tried to change him before. How was he holding a Dark Fey shape now?

He made to sit up, but found himself pinned to the bed by a warm weight curled around his body that, in his confusion and subsequent delight at finding himself in the shape of a Dark Fey, he had failed to notice. In a moment of shock, Diaval turned his head the other way, to the right, and his heart leapt as he realised that he was not alone.

She was asleep, her long eyelashes resting on those angular cheeks and her face relaxed. Her dark hair fanned out beneath her head like a dishevelled halo. Diaval noted with amusement that one of her horns had poked a hole in the pillow at some point, releasing a puff of soft white goosefeathers which had tangled their way into her locks, as though she was the snowy owl equivalent of a raven turned human – or Dark Fey, he supposed.

One slender arm lay across Diaval’s stomach, clutching him to her, whilst the other hand rested near to her face, her fingers almost teasing the full carmine lips which were parted slightly as she slept. He was certain that he had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life.

Sweet relief flooded through him at the sight of her. Whatever the outcome of the battle with the Warlock, Maleficent had survived it, and in falling asleep beside him, Diaval had hope that his heartfelt confession had not alienated her entirely. He had been convinced that he would not survive and had given little thought to the effect of his words in the event that he did.

He could have frightened her away, so, so easily.

But clearly he hadn’t, not if she was here with him, holding him close as though releasing him would have him hurtling into oblivion.

 _Unless…_ Diaval frowned as a sudden, rather unpalatable thought occurred to him. 

Oh gods, what if she _hadn’t_ survived the battle, and she was here beside him in this questionable netherworld because they were _both_ dead? Such a thing did not negate the joy he felt at having her with him rather than retreating as fast as her wings could carry her, but Diaval had to admit to himself that he would be more than a little… _miffed_ … if the price of having her by his side was death for both of them.

Especially if they were stuck in _Ulstead Castle_ for eternity.

As though sensing his uncertainty, Maleficent’s eyelids began to flutter, slowly revealing tired green eyes which came to focus on his face. She smiled wearily.

“You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Confused.” Diaval admitted with a somewhat perturbed frown. “That mac soith all but tore me in two. I must be dead, because there’s no way that any man or beast could have survived bein’ injured like that. But then you’re here, which has me concerned. If I’m dead and this is the afterlife – and an ugly afterlife at that – then why are you here? Does this mean you’re dead too?”

“I’m not dead, Diaval.”

“Are you sure? I’d be devastated if you were, you know. And not only because if you’re dead, you can’t annoy Borra by namin’ your firstborn after your favourite dearly-departed raven.”

“I’m not dead, and neither are you.”

“I don’t see how that can be. I know I was out of it for a bit there, but before that… well, I could feel what he did. Right up until he threw me through that window. You’re powerful, Mistress, but I can’t honestly believe that you were able to heal those sorts of injuries. And I’m wearin’ a Dark Fey shape, which wasn’t possible before. I must be dead. Maybe I’m hallucinatin’ you before I go to the afterlife proper? Maybe eternity won’t be this ugly after all.”

Maleficent rolled her eyes. “I am not an hallucination, and for the last time, you are _very much alive_ you silly bird.”

“Then how is it that I’m healed, in this lovely form, and you’re lying there cuddlin’ me? Seems like a bit of a dreamworld to me.”

“I am not _cuddling_ you.”

“So what d’you call this arrangement, then?” he queried, gesturing to her arm around his midsection with a cheeky grin.

“I am beginning to wonder why I bothered.”

“So you did heal me? How in the stars did you have enough magic for it?”

“I almost didn’t.” she replied quietly.

“You didn’t go and use it all?” Diaval frowned, suddenly concerned. She did seem a tad paler than usual, though he had assumed it was from exhaustion, rather than a physical problem. “I’m not worth destroying yourself over!”

“I did not. Almost, but not entirely – and it would have renewed in time regardless. In the end, I had to resort to doing something rather unorthodox, but it worked, and that is all that matters.”

He thought for a moment. “You turned me into a Dark Fey?” It hardly seemed to be a solution, especially considering that her first attempt at doing so had failed miserably, but with only fragments of the whole picture to work with, Diaval could think of no other explanation for his new shape and his miraculous survival.

“Not exactly. When you were…” she swallowed hard, “When you were dying, as I was trying to heal your wounds, you started to change shape involuntarily. Death throes, if I’m not mistaken. The Dark Fey form was merely the one you finally settled on before the changing stopped, and I did not have the energy to change you into anything else. It hardly seemed important, anyway. I could probably do it now, though, if you wanted.”

“No! Not until I’ve had a chance to put these gorgeous wings through their paces, at least. Maybe never.” He stretched the wing which was not crushed against his Mistress to its full span again and gently stroked his silky feathers. “They’re _wonderful_.”

He felt, more than saw, Maleficent smile indulgently.

After a moment, the corners of his mouth turned down as confusion once again took the place of wonder, and he turned back to Maleficent, “But… _how_? I couldn’t hold this shape before. I didn’t have the magic in me to do it.”

“You do now.”

“Magic?”

“Yes. Inside you, in the tiniest parts of your body, as I do. Can you not feel it?”

He _did_ feel different, now that he stopped to think on it. Though his body felt familiar – Dark Fey being all but physically identical to human ones, excepting the horns and wings – there was something about his deeper self which seemed to almost _tingle_ , as though the makeup of his being suddenly understood the composition of the universe and was itching to play with it. A familiar power that he had only ever experienced the touch of before now seethed through his veins; it enveloped him, sparking and shining with an otherworldly wonder.

“How?” he whispered.

“My magic alone was not enough to heal you. It regenerates as I use it, builds back up, but what you needed was more than I could give. More than I had left to give. So, in order to save your life, I changed you.”

“Changed me?”

“A non-magical creature can be made into a magical one with a sacrifice. That is what the Warlock was trying to do, first with Wilfred and then with Ingrith, to save his own life – to use the Erlkönig’s magic and make it his own. But with you, Diaval – you, _your_ blood, _that_ was the sacrifice. Enough for me to force your body to take some of my magic and make it your own. I could never have done it otherwise – your body would never have accepted such a change. In the end, you healed yourself using that magic, with only a small amount of assistance from me. That is how you are holding the Fey shape.”

Diaval bit his lower lip and blinked rapidly, turning away from Maleficent to the fragmented remnants of the window which lay scattered on the floor. They reflected the bright morning sunlight, slivers of beauty among the telling dark stains on the floorboards beneath them. Some feet away, piled up in a stinking heap by the outer wall, were the remains of his clothes. Blood had seeped from them before it had fully dried, surrounding the soaked and ragged garments in a sticky puddle.

There was so much blood.

“I shouldn’t have lived.” Diaval murmured, “You saved me again. Life debts galore. I’ve already promised you eternal devotion, so I’m a bit stymied this time around.”

“You could promise to stop putting yourself in potentially lethal situations. I think I would rather like that.”

“Ah, you know I can’t promise such a thing.” Diaval chuckled. He leaned back against the pillow again and reached to take her hand, holding it where it lay against his heart. “Tell me what happened. After the Warlock tossed me through the window. I only remember bits and pieces after he… I was in and out.” he winced, more in response to the agonised expression on Maleficent’s face than in the memory of his ordeal; his brain had done a fine job of suppressing the worst of the pain, and he was not complaining about that at all.

“Prince Fritjof is dead,” Maleficent began hesitantly, “And he did not complete the sacrifice. You managed to kill the Erlkönig – it was only moments after the Warlock threw you through the window that the Elf King died and the magic was lost.”

“You killed him? Fritjof?”

Maleficent bit her lip and shook her head slightly. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “No.”

“Borra, then? No? Then who?”

“Vætki. It was Vætki who killed him, in the end.”

“ _Vætki_? But how-?” The answer hit him even as the question passed his lips. “The sword. Gods, she planned it all along, didn’t she?”

“I don’t think that she sought Fritjof out – he found her, and it was a matter of… survival.” Maleficent trailed off.

Diaval’s blood ran cold. “Mistress? You’re scarin’ me a little, there.” He rolled toward her, sliding his hand to her shoulder and searching her tear-bright eyes with mounting fear. “What aren’t you tellin’ me?”

She released a shuddering breath and blinked in a rapid, uneven sort of way that set his pulse racing. He instinctively pulled her closer to him, holding her to his chest.

“What happened?” he murmured.

“He killed her.” Maleficent replied tremulously, “Vætki. I think that he killed her before she had even killed him, actually. It was only that she had swung the sword so hard that it kept going, even after he threw the knife, and all but cut him in half.”

Diaval exhaled shakily. “Oh no. _No_. Not _Vætki_. Not after all that he did to her – he _killed_ her? Was destroyin' her life not enough for him? He had to take it from her completely?” Unlike Maleficent, Diaval did not fight the tears which welled in his eyes; he could not save Vætki, nor could he change the misery of the life that the girl had led, but he would at least afford her the respect of not stifling his grief at her passing.

“She didn’t have to die, Diaval. Another second and Borra and I would have killed Fritjof. It all happened so fast, and it was over before either of us realised what she intended to do.” Maleficent lay her head against his chest and he held her tightly. There was nothing that he could say which would help in any way, and no way that he could change what had happened.

“Does Ekkert know?” he whispered at last.

“I imagine that he probably does by now.” Maleficent replied softly, casting her eyes to the sunlight which streamed through the window. “Aurora said that he was with her on the other side of the river last night.”

“Aurora was here? Did she see…?” Diaval looked over his shoulder to the bloodstained floor and the pile of ruined clothing. He hated to think that his little girl had seen him so hurt, and that such images might follow her henceforth. His survival was irrelevant; some things could not be unseen, even though the outcome of the situation had proven to be positive.

“She was, very late last night, and quite insistent upon making sure that you were as alive as I assured her that you were. She didn’t mention the blood.” Maleficent sighed, “She didn’t have to. She is a clever girl; she was able to extrapolate well enough from what you see now and your appearance as to what had occurred.”

“Is she all right?”

“She is strong. Stronger than any of us. She sat with you for a short while – calling you all manner of ridiculous endearments, might I add – and then returned to the Moors to organise the repatriation of the Ulsteadan people.”

“It wasn’t Aurora who helped you, then? Surely you didn’t clean me off and drag me into this bed by yourself?”

“No. It was Borra. Once he had determined that Fritjof was definitely dead, he locked Ingrith in her chambers and came straight here. I was grateful for it; you were a mess, and I had almost no magic remaining to help me to clean you up, never mind lift you into a bed with those wings. We had to clean you like a _human_ , with a water basin and a rag. I’m afraid that Borra tore your clothes rather badly in getting them off, though.”

“Oh well. They’re only clothes.” Diaval replied, hoping that he was not blushing as furiously as it felt he was at the thought of Maleficent giving him a sponge bath. “Is your magic recovered yet?”

“Not entirely, although it shouldn’t be too long.”

“He’s a good man.” Diaval said sadly. That was the worst of it, really. He could not hate Borra, for his heart was kind, despite the swagger and bravado. Though he would never be an ideal mate for Maleficent – too hot-headed, too inclined toward extreme responses, his fiery personality too like her own – the raven man had to concede that he would do right by her, in the end. He had no right to interfere, even for the sake of his own heart.

He grimaced, pulling back from Maleficent and removing his hand from her shoulder.

“Diaval?” she frowned, confused at his sudden change in behaviour, “Are you in pain?”

 _Yes_.

He forced himself to smile brightly. “No, Mistress, you fixed me up as thoroughly as always. But perhaps… you’d best be gettin’ back to Borra. He’ll probably be wonderin’ where you’ve been all this time.”

“Diaval-”

“No, it’s all right, Mistress.” Diaval interjected. Though he burned with shame for what he had said to her by the castle wall, what he had _done_ , he could still set it right, reassure her that he would not make a nuisance of himself in her relationship with Borra. She could still trust him. “I shouldn’t have said what I said before, not when you had already been clear that your choice was made. It was wrong of me to put you on the spot like that.” His voice lowered to a murmur. “You’d best go and be with your mate.”

“Diaval-”

“Mistress, _go_.” He rolled over as best he could to face the window, pulling his wings around him like a cocoon and watching the streaming sunlight began to blur through his tears. “Go to him.”

Maleficent hesitated for several long seconds, then slowly extracted herself from the bed. He heard her sigh – a wet, shuddering sort of sound which pierced his heart and set his eyes brimming anew – and her feet softly touching the floor.

“If that… if that is what you wish.” she whispered. Diaval listened to the soft swish of her skirts as she slowly walked away, keeping his wings tucked tightly around him and his eyes trained on the broken window.

He held his tears at bay until she had left the room.

* * *

_“Does he live?”_

_She looked up at the unexpected sound of Borra’s voice. All too aware of the tackiness of Diaval’s blood on her cheek, streaked with the salty remains of her tears, she made to wipe her face with her sleeve, but only succeeded in smearing the mess further. She must have looked pathetic – the great Phoenix of the Dark Fey, bent sobbing over the bloodied body of her love like a lost child._

* * *

Maleficent took wing almost as soon as she had closed the bedchamber door behind Diaval. Though the sky would have been preferable, if only to feel the force of the summer wind blowing away the scent of grief and despair, she could not escape to her sanctuary in the heavens quite yet.

Instead, she flew down the hallways of Ulstead castle like a trapped bird, weaving around corners and diving down staircases, paying little attention to the frightened screams of the maids as she rushed past them.

Maleficent supposed that she probably _should_ care, considering how traumatised they likely were, but caring about such things took an effort which she was unprepared to bother with at that moment. She had to find Borra. Little else mattered until she did.

Bursting through the doors into the Great Hall – and finding it deserted – she picked up speed and began to spin toward a particularly vulgar leadlight window at the far end. It was one of Ingrith’s commissions, Maleficent was certain of it, for it depicted a satyr in chains, fighting against an army of Ulsteadan soldiers. Aurora had been lobbying to replace it for the better part of a year.

Well. Now it would have to be replaced, and Fritjof’s explosion could shoulder the blame.

Maleficent smashed through the window, reducing it to a rainbow of shards and bits of lead which rained down upon the stone below, tinkling like fairy laughter. She wheeled around momentarily to admire her handiwork, raising an eyebrow in satisfaction at the Maleficent-sized hole in the glass.

“Oops…” she muttered, blowing a puff of magic toward it and watching as the remaining glass fragmented and fell, “How _careless_ of me.”

* * *

_“Does he live?” Borra repeated, kneeling beside Diaval’s still form and placing a hand on the raven man’s chest. He said nothing about her appearance, instead offering her a small, but encouraging smile. “His heart beats. He breathes. And he wears the form of a Dark Fey. How is this possible?”_

_Maleficent swallowed hard, trying to clear the uncomfortable gritty sensation from her throat. “I had to change him – give him magic, and with it, the ability to heal himself. There was no other way to save him.”_

_“He is one of us now.”_

_“Yes… and no. He is still a raven – he will always be a raven, no matter the shape he wears. But he can now wear the shape of a Dark Fey, where he could not before. Right now, in this form, he is one of us.”_

_“We take care of our own, Maleficent. Let’s get him into the bed. He needs to rest and heal.”_

_Borra’s hands moved to the lacing of Diaval’s tunic, swollen and knotted with his blood, and made to undo it. As he did so, Maleficent rose and made her way to the small dressing table which sat in the corner of the room, retrieving a basin of water and several wash-rags. She felt lightheaded and unsettled with so little magic flowing through her; she imagined that it was a similar feeling to minor intoxication, and so made her way back to Diaval with careful attention on the sloshing water in the basin to avoid spilling it._

_She snapped her head up at the sound of fabric tearing. Borra had evidently given up on trying to undress Diaval carefully, and had begun meticulously ripping the seams of his tunic in an effort to remove it._

_He shrugged at her. “The wings have burst through it. It’s all but ruined anyway.”_

* * *

The sound of a child sobbing and the chink of metal on stone drew her to the graveyard.

She landed softly among the headstones of royalty long passed, some twenty feet from the heaped soil of a fresh grave. Though in the far corner, tucked away against an ancient-looking stone wall, it could have been the grave of a princess or a lord, but for the emaciated teenage boy who knelt beside it.

Maleficent approached slowly, as one might a wild animal. “Ekkert. I’m so sorry.”

The boy sniffled, looking up at her with swollen, reddened eyes. In his hands, he held a chisel and a hammer; at his knees lay a slab of coastal limestone, covered in chips and scratches.

“She was so brave.” he whispered. His lower lip trembled as his eyes began to fill anew.

Compassion was still an emotion which confused Maleficent. She felt it strongly, but the hold it had upon her was almost as frightening as feelings of love, drawn as it so often was from the same source. It was a dangerous emotion, empathy, and could so easily be turned about to become a weapon.

But this was Ekkert, the boy to whom she owed so much, and who had experienced a lifetime of horrors in just fifteen short years. He was no threat to her, or to the ones she loved. He was just a child, a boy on the cusp of manhood, and he was alone in the world at the worst time of his life.

Just like she had been, once.

Giving in to her instincts, Maleficent knelt beside him and put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing just a little. Ekkert leaned into her, still eminently trusting in spite of all that he had seen.

“She was.” Maleficent murmured, “She tricked the Warlock into trusting her, letting her get close to him, and she used it to defeat him. Vætki was braver than any of us, in the end.”

“Do you think she found her babies? In the next world? Are they together?”

Maleficent pulled the boy closer, holding him to her heart, and closed her eyes. “I have no doubt.” she whispered into the ragged mess of his hair. For all that she doubted the otherworld stories of the humans, in that moment she believed it with every fibre of her being. A soul like Vætki’s would know happiness in the next world with those that she had lost in this one.

The boy nodded against her chest, sniffling slightly. “Good.”

They stayed there for a short while, the human boy and the Dark Fey; he drawing comfort from her as he may once have from his lost mother, she gently rocking him as she might her own child. Eventually, though, Ekkert pulled away from Maleficent with a sniffle and bent over the limestone again. Carefully positioning his chisel, he struck it with the hammer. A small flake of stone fell away.

“You are making her a marker.” Maleficent said softly.

“It’s the last thing I can do for her. She showed me, a long time ago, how to write our names. I remembered. I remembered the shapes. I can do this for her.” he replied.

“You did.” Maleficent whispered, blinking away fresh tears. “It’s perfect.”

The boy could not read – not any more, in any case, after what the Warlock had done to him. The language of his childhood was all but lost. Unable to match the sounds to the letters, Ekkert had trusted Vætki when she had told him the way to form their names, and had faithfully reproduced hers on the stone before him.

He could not have known any different.

Carefully carved into the limestone slab in large, uneven lettering, deep in some places and shallow in others, Ekkert had written ‘ _Seina_ ’.

* * *

_Maleficent rung out the soiled rag into the basin, which now contained more blood than it did water. Diaval was not clean by any means, and he would undoubtedly be horrified at the state of his beautiful self when – if – he awoke, but she and Borra had done their best._

_“Come on.” the Desert Fey said. He crouched at Diaval’s head and threaded his arms beneath the raven man’s armpits. “Take his legs.”_

_Together, Maleficent and Borra hauled Diaval to the nearby bed, carefully arranging his wings into a comfortable position and covering him with the sheet. He lay as pale and still as death, but for the soft rise and fall of his chest._

_He would live. She had to believe that he would have the strength to recover from his injuries and come back to her. And then…_

_What then?_

* * *

Smoke rose from the garden to the north of the castle in a place where no building stood to burn. It had begun to billow, dark and unforgiving, into the clear summer sky, altogether too reminiscent of the Warlock’s magical fire the night before.

Maleficent’s heart began to pound. She left Ekkert to his work – he barely noticed her departure, fixated as he was on neatening up his carving so that his sister might have the very best that he could give her – and flew rapidly toward the smoke.

As she approached, it became clear that her fears were unfounded. It was a bonfire, lighting up orange and yellow as the flames slowly grew to consume a great pile of wood and peat which had been stacked in the middle of the northern garden. Beside it, condoning it with their very presences, stood the royal family of Ulstead.

Phillip and King John stood side by side, their stances almost identical despite their physical differences. John was holding Wilfred against his shoulder, unconsciously rocking the sleeping boy; his cheek rested gently against the blonde down on the child’s head.

To their right stood Aurora, clad in a deep grey gown which Maleficent had seldom seen upon her. She recalled vaguely that humans had established rules about the colours of their attire befitting certain occasions – light colours for joyous events and darker colours for the more solemn ones – having been told innumerable times that her own rather noirish proclivities were indicative of perpetual mourning.

Not that she cared about such things.

Maleficent landed beside Aurora with barely a sound, though her daughter heard her nonetheless. The Queen of the Moors turned, her face lighting up as she saw her mother, and threw her arms around Maleficent with a tiny shriek of delight.

“You’re here! How is Diaval?”

“Much recovered. He was awake when I left.”

Aurora narrowed her eyes and winced. “Does he recall any of it?”

“Most of it,” Maleficent replied, “Though mercifully, not the extent of the pain. He… he wanted some time alone.”

She could not tell Aurora the circumstances surrounding Diaval’s request. It was not right to burden her daughter with the convoluted disaster that her personal life had become, especially considering that the mess was entirely her own fault. Had she not callously ignored her deepest desires in favour of a _logical_ solution to the problem of an heir, then it would have been far easier. Far less painful, ironically, given that she had chosen the path to Borra precisely to avoid unnecessary hurt.

She really was breathtakingly stupid.

Maleficent looked up to find Ingrith approaching from the far side of the bonfire, clutching a flaming torch. She seemed altogether too comfortable with it, as though fire and destruction were somehow her birthright.

“You let her have a weapon?!” Maleficent hissed.

“Not a weapon. A fire-starter. And Borra is on the other side of the pyre, keeping watch, making sure that she only sets the wood alight and doesn’t try to escape or stage a mutiny. Not that anyone would be fooled by that, now.” Phillip replied.

The Ulsteadan queen eyed Maleficent. It was clear from the expression on her face that she was not unaware of the concerns surrounding her, but there was something in the steely blue of her gaze which had not existed before. It was as though she had finally understood and accepted a difficult truth, and had emerged all the better for it – and perhaps she had. The shock of reuniting with her brother, whose presumed death had been a catalyst for her prejudices becoming a crusade, only to find that he was not the man that she had imagined him to be _had_ changed her. She owed her life to those that she had once sought to destroy, and it would take her some time to come to terms with it. Her worldview would change, certainly, but not without considerable introspection on Ingrith’s part.

Still, the veiled respect that Maleficent could see in the woman’s eyes assured her that there was hope. Ingrith had seen enough, experienced enough, to become a better person than she had ever been before.

The Queen of Ulstead offered her a thin, fleeting smile. “There is no cause for concern. This is how we do things in Nyrsta Vígi. How we farewell our dead. Let us hope that the smoke cleanses my brother’s soul, though I expect eternal damnation is his lot.” She pursed her lips. “Still, he only had himself to blame.”

Not a bonfire, then. A funeral pyre, in which the remains of Prince Fritjof Vargr of Nyrsta Vígi burned.

Come to think of it, she _could_ smell cooking meat.

“Are you recovered?” Maleficent asked Ingrith. She could see well enough that the woman was perfectly fine, but Diaval had insisted that she memorise certain social niceties after that disastrous dinner a year earlier, even as he ruminated in the same breath that she didn’t care a jot about any of it. He would teach her how to make small talk if it was the last thing he did, the infernal creature.

“ _You’ll get the hang of it, Mistress_ ,” he’d grinned at her, flicking a stray lock of hair from his eyes in an entirely innocent but utterly delectable sort of way.

“Yes,” Ingrith said shortly, “Though I suppose I owe you my gratitude for that outcome.”

“The one who truly deserves your thanks is no longer in a position to hear it.” Maleficent replied.

Ingrith, to her credit, had the gentility to bow her head a moment in respect. “No, she is not.”

Behind her, the fire crackled loudly, sizzling a little as the moisture in Fritjof’s remains began to evaporate. High as it was, the pyre would burn for days, reducing his body to ashes that would scatter on the wind. Nothing would be left of him but the memories of those whose lives he had almost destroyed.

Maleficent spied Borra coming around the burning pile of wood, his image rippling and swaying through the radiant heat. Something in his expression beckoned her. It was almost as though he had been expecting her to come looking for him.

They met halfway, out of earshot of the humans, and walked slowly together away from Fritjof’s cremation.

Borra’s feathers were in a terrible state once more. Though the new ones had grown in sleek and perfect, the subsequent fight with the Warlock had managed to ruffle them rather spectacularly. He looked more familiar like that, dishevelled and scruffy, as though his outward appearance was an integral part of his personality.

He tilted his head back toward Ingrith. “She is far more forgiving than I. I would have just dumped him in the sea.”

“He was her brother. For all that he did, for all that he meant to do, he was her brother.” Maleficent replied. “Somewhere in there remained the little boy with whom she used to play. Perhaps it is he that she farewells, and not the monster that he became.”

“Or perhaps this way, she knows that he’s properly dead.” Borra smirked.

Maleficent raised an eyebrow. “That too.”

They walked along in heavy silence for a few moments. Borra wore an expectant expression, as though he knew that she had something important to say and was merely waiting for her to pluck up the courage to do so.

Well. Best not keep him waiting too long, then.

“Borra, there is something that I need to discuss with you.” Maleficent began, grateful that their path had taken them well away from the ears of her family. She expected that this would be a difficult enough discussion as it was; the last thing that she wanted was helpful suggestions or comments.

“I’ve heard that one before.” he quipped. She found it odd that his body language remained quite relaxed, especially considering that her own spine was arrow straight in tension. It was a discordant response to her words and her tone, even though she had yet to actually say anything important. It set her even further on edge.

Maleficent opened her mouth to speak, but the words died in her throat. 

How could she do this? She had promised to mate Borra, and he seemed both pleased by the prospect and blissfully unaware of her change of mind. How could she back out now, even knowing that it was the only way that she could be will Diaval?

“Actually,” he said, stopping to face her, “There’s something that I need to discuss with _you_. It’s rather important.”

Maleficent narrowed her eyes at him quizzically. Though his stance spoke of calm assurance, his expression was entirely serious, demanding her full attention. “What?”

Borra sighed kindly. “I don’t think that we can mate, Maleficent.”

She blinked at him for several perplexed seconds. “What?”

“You’re beautiful. Smart. Powerful. Incredibly desirable. The gods know, I’d love to be your mate. But,” he said with a wry sort of smile, “As much as I’m attracted to you, I’m not about to put myself into an undignified situation for the sake of being able to have you.”

Maleficent stared at him in utter bewilderment. “What?”

“If we were to mate, you would never really be with me, would you? I would have your body, but I would never have your heart. Every time I touched you, you would be wishing that it were someone else. I would lay with you, and you would be thinking of him.” He shrugged ruefully, though he appeared more resigned than upset. It was as though he was not speaking of his own rejection by her at all.

“Borra…”

“You know who I mean, Maleficent. I was there, remember? Straight after you healed him, lying there on the floor, holding him. His blood all over your face, mingling with your tears. I knew then, watching you cry over him. Why do you think that I helped you to clean him up, to get him into the bed?” He took a step closer to her and said softly, “Why do you think that I left you alone?”

She could not look at him, overwhelmed by his compassion and his kindness. He understood – probably better than she did herself. He saw what she had stubbornly failed to see for far too long, and was choosing to step aside so that she might find happiness with the one her heart had chosen.

“He came to me, brandishing a sword, and told me that he would come after me if I hurt you – you didn’t know that, did you?”

She looked up at _that_ , her eyes wide. “He did _what_?!”

“No word of a lie. He’s a brave soul, that Diaval. _Foolhardy_ , because had I been feeling more aggressive or possessive, I might have torn his arms from his body for pointing a sword at me – but _brave_. As brave as a Desert Fey, and I don’t say that lightly.” Borra said. “Beyond that, though, he loves you, and it couldn’t be plainer if he shouted it from the highest tower of that gods-awful castle over there.”

The edges of the world were beginning to spin a little. Maleficent had expected Borra to object to being told that she would no longer mate with him, especially once he learned that the reason was the raven that he so often sneered at – she certainly did not expect him to be the one to _instigate_ the end of their proposed union. Something had changed, though, and it took her only moments to realise what that something was. 

Borra was no longer sneering at Diaval, nor was he calling him ‘raven’ instead of using his name. Somehow, in all that they had experienced during Wilfred’s rescue and the subsequent fight against the Warlock’s machinations, Diaval had earned Borra’s respect.

“I’m not upset, Maleficent.” Borra continued, unaware of her realisation. “A bit disappointed, but not upset, especially as I know that what you wanted to discuss was this very same thing. This is the right decision. We would have been good together, but we will be better still as friends. I want my mate to love me and want to be with me for my _own_ sake, and you… you should mate the one that you truly love. Not someone for whom you have settled.”

Maleficent bit her lower lip. She was _not_ going to cry.

Much.

“Go to him.” Borra rumbled, clapping a meaty hand to her shoulder and giving it an encouraging squeeze, “Tell him how you feel instead of hiding it away. Be happy, Maleficent. _Allow_ yourself to be happy.”

She had never been the sort who had been inclined to hug, especially before accepting her Beastie as a daughter, but there seemed no other appropriate response to Borra’s words but to wrap her arms around the broad muscle of his shoulders. She could not even reach all the way around him. He returned her embrace, though far more carefully – he could snap her like a twig, after all.

An embrace of friendship, and a perfect one at that.

Maleficent pulled back to look into Borra’s eyes. He smiled and jerked his head toward the castle. “Go on then.”

Words could not convey the depth of her feelings, but she nonetheless trusted that he would understand all that she could not say.

“Thank you, Borra.”

* * *

She opened the door silently, apprehension rendering her little more than a breath of wind.

Diaval had evidently rallied far better than she had anticipated, and was standing by one of the unbroken windows, stark naked, holding up the bloodied remains of his clothing with a grimace of revulsion.

Gods, he was beautiful. Long and lean, muscular without being brawny, and now with the most magnificent pair of iridescent black wings that she had ever seen. His face, though angular and sharp in the form of a Dark Fey, still retained the features which she knew so well; his strong chin, those impossibly dark, liquid eyes, that dear beaky nose that he liked to stick into everybody’s business. Now, he also sported a pair of enormous ebony horns, and pointed ears which rivalled the sharpness of his nose. A Dark Fey unlike any that had ever graced the earth or sky, magnificent in his uniqueness and utterly unaware of it. He was a work of art, and she could have gladly stood there admiring him all day.

Diaval shifted, trying to shake out what was left of his tunic, before dumping it on the floor in disgust and bending down to examine the state of his pants. Maleficent had to bite back a predatory growl as she watched the muscles rippling in his thighs and rear. She felt herself flush; the warmth in her cheeks rivalled only by the tingling heat in her loins.

She had seen him naked before – Shrike was not the only one who had enjoyed the show as he bathed, after all, and she and Borra had stripped him of his destroyed clothing after she had healed him – but this time, with the very real prospect of being able to touch him, run her hands over his beautiful body and dig her talons into that delicious behind, watching him in nothing but his skin had taken a titillating turn.

“Did you mean it?” she asked suddenly.

Diaval whirled around, whipping his wings either side of his body to cover himself. The poor thing had turned scarlet, flushing from his chest to the tips of his newly Fey-like ears. “Mistress! I didn’t hear you come in!”

He had been crying. His eyes were red and swollen, and tears still clung to his eyelashes, sparkling like jewels in the sunlight. Once again she had caused him pain, and yet he loved her still.

She did not deserve him, cruel creature that she was. She did not deserve him, but gods above, she wanted him, and she would not deny either of them each other a day longer. 

Perhaps if she truly held his heart, she would be far more gentle with it.

Diaval blinked quickly, trying and failing to hide the evidence of his misery, and offered her his dear crooked grin.

“I don’t suppose you could magic my clothin’ into a decent state?” he asked, tipping his head toward the sticky rags that had once been a smart tunic and trousers, “I don’t really want to put them back on as they are.”

Maleficent shrugged, raking her eyes very deliberately over his wing-covered body until she met his eyes. His pupils dilated.

Good.

“I could,” she replied teasingly, “Or you could just leave them off.”

He swallowed hard, somehow managing to blush even further. The poor little Irish bird evidently had a rather Celtic complexion. “Can’t… can’t be walkin’ around Ulstead Castle in the altogether, Mistress. The humans will have conniptions.”

“Poor things.” she replied drolly, flashing him a predatory smile. She strode purposefully toward him and stopped far closer than she might have done before.

It had not been her intention to seduce him. She had come to him with the intention of laying her feelings bare and hoping that Diaval had meant all that he said before he had kissed her, but nothing more.

Yet his proximity, coupled with her newly acknowledged feelings, was proving an enticing combination. The memory of his lips lingered like a ghost upon her own, her skin still burning from the sensation of his arms surrounding her. It had given her mind all that it needed to imagine how it would be to couple with him; his body, strong and hard with skin like fine velvet, impossibly warm against hers as he took her in his arms and moved with her – _within_ her – his mouth and hands trailing fire along her skin, his gentleness stoking a flame within her so bright that it threatened to ignite the world.

Maleficent had never experienced desire in this way – so encompassing, so intense. She had not intended to mate Diaval immediately, instead intending to allow their existing relationship to mould itself into something more in an organic, natural sort of way, but she found herself questioning her resolve. It had been twenty-three years, after all – perhaps they _had_ waited long enough already.

“I spoke to Borra,” she murmured, trailing her talons over his chin and down to his chest, slowly tracing the path of his scars, “And we seem to be of the same opinion regarding our proposed mating.”

“Oh?” Diaval croaked. Maleficent could feel the racing thrum of his heart beneath her fingertips. Emboldened, she began to draw patterns on his sternum, relishing the hitch in his breathing and the sweet blush which once again crept into his pale cheeks. His eyes never left her face, though his longing gaze moved between her eyes and her lips. “And what opinion would that be?” he rasped softly.

Her other hand came up to stroke his face, her thumb running over his lower lip, and he bit back a strangled moan, pulling his wings tighter around himself. “Mistress,” he choked out, “I- I’m goin’ to need you to stop doin’ that. Gods…” He closed his eyes, even as he leaned into her touch.

“But you’re enjoying it, Diaval.” Maleficent purred, moving to stroke his wings. He whimpered and swayed toward her.

“Mmm-hmm… and that’s why I really need you to stop doin’ it…” he gasped, “‘S gettin’ indecent. Shouldn’t be doin’ this. Borra would blow his top.”

“I think that you would find Borra in favour.” she murmured, leaning in to press her lips along the line of his jaw. This time, he moaned aloud, reaching around his wings to grip her upper arms and push her away. His hands trailed down the length of her arms to her wrists, which he held firmly.

“I doubt that.” he whispered, “Gods, I’ve really messed things up. Please, Mistress, you’ll have to forget what I said. I didn’t mean to go ruinin’ your plans.”

“My plans were ridiculous.”

He stared at her as though she had grown a third horn overnight, and dropped her wrists. “What?”

Maleficent sighed and enunciated carefully, “My _plans_ were _ridiculous_.”

“I’m sorry,” Diaval replied, narrowing his eyes and regarding her suspiciously, “Who are you and what have you done with my Mistress?”

“Very funny.”

“Did you bump your head again?”

“I did _not_. And I do _occasionally_ admit to being wrong.”

“ _Very_ occasionally. I can count on one hand the number of times. One,” he said, holding up a finger, then stopped and raised both of his eyebrows at her cheekily.

“Rude creature. Here am I, prepared to expose my innermost feelings and render myself vulnerable, and there you are, making fun of me. Perhaps I should change my mind.”

“What, give old Borra the flick?” he muttered acerbically.

Maleficent was momentarily bewildered. How had he not worked it out yet?

Her hand slid to stroke the feathers covering his torso and he jerked. “Mistress,” he whispered, “What are you doin’?”

“Did you mean what you said, Diaval? Earlier, beside the castle?” she asked, trailing her fingertips along his collarbones. He swallowed hard, clearly fighting his instincts, and doing an admirable job of it, she had to admit. Years of holding himself back had trained him well. 

She saw it in his eyes, though, clear as day in the enormous, endless depths of his pupils; desire which burned like flame, barely contained, which eroded his fragile control with each touch of her fingers, each whispered word, each heartbeat that gave him hope that his love might be welcomed and reciprocated.

“Every word.” he murmured, “More than there were words for. More than there are, even now.”

“You love me.” she whispered.

He bit his lip, squeezing his eyes closed. “Yes. Gods, yes. More than anythin’. But I should’ve said somethin’ earlier. Years ago. It wasn’t fair of me to blindside you like that.”

“Yes,” she replied, “You should have said something earlier.”

Diaval pursed his lips. “Well, at least we agree on that. Doesn’t change anythin’-”

“But so should I.” she interrupted.

He frowned in utter confusion. “Mistress?”

“What are you waiting for, Diaval? You were not so reticent in kissing me last night.”

The raven man stared at her as though she had lost her mind entirely. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. It wasn’t right, even if I did think I was goin’ to die and it wouldn’t matter anyway once I did. You’re matin’ Borra. I don’t like it, but I respect it. I should have respected it.”

“I am not going to mate Borra.” Maleficent replied firmly, “We mutually agreed that it was unwise.”

“Unwise? What’s that s'posed to mean? I thought you chose him because he was the best candidate to father your children?”

“It was unsound reasoning which brought me to that conclusion. A fear of allowing myself to love and be loved – and of all the potential sires available among those I did _not_ love, then yes, he was the logical choice. He is not, however, the _best_ choice – the only choice, really – for a mate. A partner in both life and love. I should have realised that far sooner.” Maleficent admitted, a wistful smile playing across her lips at the thought. “I made a decision based upon idiotic dynastic reasoning, just like the humans. I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself.”

Diaval chuckled in spite of himself. “Well, it does work out so well for them, doesn’t it? Just look at how happy John and Ingrith are.”

Maleficent narrowed her eyes at him. “Quite.”

“So now what?”

Maleficent bit her lower lip and looked into his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat at the spark of hope within them. They had danced around this, ignored it and denied its existence for long enough. It was time to take that final step, and fly into the future together.

“Borra recognised before I did that our mating was unwise and informed me as much. He released me from my promise, because he knew that if we were to go ahead, he would forever be second to the one that I truly wanted to be with. Second to the one that I truly love.”

Diaval hesitated as the gravity of her words descended, his expression changing from confusion to disbelief to immeasurable joy in a matter of seconds. He blinked away the fresh welling of tears even as a shy, wondrous grin spread clear across his face.

“Me?” he whispered.

She brushed her fingers softly against his cheek, barely making contact, and murmured, “You have been such a constant for so long that to imagine life without you is almost unbearable. I would never know happiness again. I cannot deny how my heart leapt with joy last night when I realised that you would live, Diaval. That in spite of my foolishness, I had a second chance to make everything right.” 

Maleficent leaned closer to him, touching their foreheads together delicately, such that she saw only him, and he only her. “I do not intend to make the same mistake.” she murmured, “For I cannot live in fear of love when I am loved by you.”

He was a weeping mess, the poor creature, though he brushed away his tears with a soulful smile on his face. He moved his hand up to cradle her cheek, stroking his thumb against the angular bone. “Then you need never fear it again,” he replied softly, “Because I’ll never stop lovin’ you. Never.”

“Will you have me as your mate, Diaval?”

“Maleficent,” Her name was a song upon his lips, sweet and lyrical, and the raw, unrestrained love in his eyes told her that he wanted to sing it forever. “My Maleficent. There’s nothin’ I want more in this whole world.”

“Then I am yours, and you are mine.” she whispered.

“Until the stars burn out and there’s nothin’ left of the earth or sky.” he vowed.

“Even then.” she replied, leaning in to capture his lips at last.


	30. Epilogue

Diaval frowned in deep concentration, scooping up another finger’s-worth of wet sand and slapping it on to the wood carving in his other hand. He worked it in carefully, using a scrap of linen to protect his fingers from the stray splinters that he was trying to wear away, then brushed it off with a clean cloth and sat back to assess his work. His keen fingertips made their way across the surface of his carving with meticulous attention, searching for any rough patches or sharp spots which might prove a danger to curious little hands.

There were none. Diaval smiled and turned the carving over in his hands, admiring it from every angle. Painstakingly fashioned from a fallen cherry branch over weeks with only a bronze bladed whittling-knife – his own, procured by a rather confused Percival as a personal favour – the end result bore more than a passing likeness to the original subject. Close enough that the nature of it was clear from a mere glance.

Considering that he had only taken to the art half a year earlier, and only then with a singular purpose in mind, Diaval had managed to acquire quite a knack for wood carving.

Well, eventually. Nobody else needed to know that this particular sculpture was his third attempt.

It was fortunate, really, that Maleficent’s gift of magic had not given him the power to heal his wounds on that fateful summer’s day alone. The ability to self-heal had remained with him, saving him from endless lectures on personal safety – the many times that he had accidentally sliced his own fingers with his whittling-knife had gone undetected by his mate, for they had healed, amid hissed curses, almost instantaneously. He was scrupulously careful to wash off the blood before he returned to their nest, and Maleficent was none the wiser.

Probably.

To Diaval’s disappointment, however, his newfound magical ability had not afforded him the power to shapeshift on his own. Like the Dark Fey, he now possessed certain chlorokinetic abilities, and was especially adept at coaxing trees and shrubs into fruiting. He had also noticed a certain capacity for extending his healing power as Maleficent could – she had promised to help him to hone it, for the Moors would certainly benefit from another with such capabilities – but he still relied upon her to transition him between his many forms on the occasions that he wished himself different.

He did not spend as much time as a raven now, though. The lure of a form akin to that of his love, with wings to soar in the heavens and lips to kiss her both thoroughly and frequently was all too enticing, and so he spent most of his days – and nights – in his Dark Fey shape. It was only when a sense of nostalgia overtook him that he asked for the form of his birth, and even then, only for a time.

Diaval turned his face skyward, squinting in the bright spring sunlight. It was late morning, as best that he could tell. He had finished his gift just in time.

Best that he find Maleficent. They were expected at Ulstead Castle at midday, and she could be just about anywhere in the Moors.

He had arisen early that morning, just as the birds had begun to welcome the new day, shivering at the chill which still clung to the air from the waning night. Maleficent had barely stirred as Diaval crept from their nest, curling her wing over her face in response to the loss of his body heat and murmuring, “’S’till dark, silly bird,” from beneath her feathers. She had probably been asleep again before he had taken off, heading for the sandy mouth of the river to complete his gift.

Diaval wrapped his carving in the cleaner of his two cloths – he would have to find something a bit less grotty to present it in, but that was a problem for later – and spread his ebony wings as widely as they would go.

Magnificent, and _his_. He would never tire of the thrill of them.

He closed his eyes as the ground fell away, revelling in the cool rush of air against his sharp cheeks. The treetops rustled in his downdraft, a tiny applause that he had only gained the privilege of hearing after his own death and resurrection as a greater being; the wings of a raven could cause no such ripple about themselves, small as they were.

The sky above was an endless expanse of vivid blue, dotted with clouds of bright white down which cast soft shadows upon the lush canopy below. Diaval grinned at his own shadow, racing along the treetops like the soul of his raven self – larger than life, and far grander in his own mind than he had ever truly been, but somehow preparing him for the path that his life had taken nonetheless.

He skimmed the foliage with the tips of his primaries as he turned to the east, heading for the Timeless Forest. Maleficent had spent much of the past week there, regrowing sections of the forest following a particularly nasty blizzard which had struck toward the end of the winter. Most of the Moors had managed to emerge unscathed, including their nest, though it was perched high on a cliff overlooking the Fairy Mound, (in truth, neither of them had noticed the severity of the blizzard at the time, preoccupied with certain nest-warming endeavours as they were), but the Timeless Forest had been severely damaged. As it was, as the name suggested, the oldest and most mysterious part of the Moors, the Dark Fey had devoted considerable time and attention to restoring it. No doubt Diaval would find his mate there, healing a shrub or repairing a tree.

His mate. Months had passed since that terrible day which saw the Warlock defeated and poor Vætki lost, and yet Diaval still found it wonderfully astonishing that from the ashes had arisen the greatest and happiest time of his life.

Though they had burned for each other, having spent years quelling their yearnings for the sake of fear or oblivion, they had not come to mating immediately. Diaval was far too inexperienced and overwhelmed by being allowed to touch her after so many years of burying his desires, and Maleficent had both recognised that, and respected it. She had her own reasons for taking the new direction of their relationship slowly and carefully, after all, shaking off the last remnants of Stefan’s memory and her own misgivings about her deservedness of love for her own self. For a while following the defeat of the Warlock, they had been content to merely explore, learning how best to please each other without any expectation of something more.

It had not remained that way, of course. After several weeks of increasingly passionate discovery, Maleficent, already straddling his lap and arching her throat to his heated kisses, had reached behind him to drag her fingertips in tight circles between his wings. The transcendent ecstasy at such a simple touch had left him a boneless, gasping mess, and all the more so when he recalled how many times he had accidentally stimulated her in the same way. She had smiled at him in that sultry, fanged way of hers, and he could hold back no longer. He had kissed her desperately, laying her back among the soft moss and feathers of their nest, and gave in to his need. She had held him to her, one hand tangled in his hair, whispering her desire into his ear as she took him, groaning, into her body. One at last, they traversed that final distance together, joining in flesh as they had already united in their souls.

It was not how ravens did it, but instincts were a wonderful thing.

And ravens were missing out, in Diaval’s opinion. Maleficent had laughed at him when he had voiced such an opinion, of course, and he had been quite affronted there beneath her, right up until the moment that she squeezed her inner muscles around him and stole his words entirely.

He was, on reflection, probably the happiest raven on Earth. Maybe in all the stars, too, if ravens could be found in such places.

Diaval skirted the meandering perimeter of the Timeless Forest, bright black eyes roving about in search of his mate. They looked different now – enigmatic Dark Fey eyes, flecked with gold which sparkled like stars in an endless night – but they were still ever drawn to the magnetic beauty of his love, wherever she roamed.

Unfortunately for Diaval, on this particular morning, Maleficent had _not_ roamed to the Timeless Forest as he had expected. She was generally not difficult to find when she wanted to be found – or rather, did not _mind_ being found – for her kin seemed to gravitate toward her as planets might a star, but he saw no such behaviour in the Dark Fey who had made their way to the Timeless Forest that morning.

He spied Shrike, hanging almost upside down from either side of a damaged tree branch as she gently coaxed the near-severed end to knit with the trunk. Cursing audibly as she struggled to maintain a grip on the tree, she did not notice Diaval flying overhead, even though he circled back four times in order to work out precisely what she was doing there, dangling like a brightly coloured bat woman. She had recovered fully from the injuries sustained during the battle with the Warlock, and had quickly returned to henpecking a willing and besotted Percival. The captain of the Ulsteadan guard had quietly confided in Diaval that he intended to ask Shrike to marry him, just as soon as he figured out how the Dark Fey went about such a thing. To the best of Diaval’s knowledge, Percival had not yet worked up the courage, and he quietly suspected that Shrike would simply take it in hand once she felt that it was time to take the next step, irrespective of Percival’s grand plans involving rings and romantic gestures.

Further on to the east he spotted Udo, who was teaching his niece and nephew how to regrow the leaves of a sapling with his characteristically unflappable patience. Eira was the very picture of concentration, a model student, and her efforts with the top of the sapling were encouraging. She would be doing the work of an adult Fey within another season, and with great solemnity. Udo’s pride in her radiated in his smile and the gentle encouragement of his words, inaudible to Diaval but clearly appreciated by the girl, who ducked her head and returned her uncle’s smile shyly.

Rhew, on the other hand, drew no such praise. Now six years old, but no less an unholy terror, the boy was using his underdeveloped magic to encourage the leaves to grow in unnatural patterns according to his personal whims. He had created a series of spirals along the length of the branch nearest to him; pretty, certainly, but clearly unnatural.

It would be interesting to see what became of Rhew in the coming years. He was disinclined to fall into step with the more conventional Dark Fey, but his ideas were already novel and fascinating. He would prove either a wonderful asset or a great antagonist. Only time would tell, really.

Diaval wheeled around to the north, skimming low over the little creeks which fed the River and waving to the flower fairies who were busily pollinating clusters of sweet-smelling alyssum, a carpet of white and purple that stretched for miles in every direction. The scent of springtime teased his nostrils with promises of sunshine and warmth, of ripening fruit and blooming flowers, of new beginnings and the comforting embrace of steadfast love.

The tree canopy thinned as Diaval approached the Pool of Jewels, which lay below him as still as glass. The innumerable gemstones below the water sparkled in the dazzling sunlight, reflecting it upward toward him. Coloured light played across the darkness of his wings with such startling clarity that for a moment, Diaval might have mistaken himself for a Jungle Fey. He laughed aloud, twirling in the air in pure joy; if there were gods to be believed in, he was truly thankful to them for allowing him such pleasure, such delight in his existence. There was little more in life that he could hope for or dream of, for he knew the true happiness of utter contentment.

He slowed as he reached the far west of the Pool of Jewels, the point at which the Moors abutted the kingdom of Perceforest. A gently wandering creek ignored the distinction between the two realms, splitting the shrubbery as it wended lazily across the landscape from the lush woodland on one side to the cleared meadow on the other. There existed little difference between the border in that moment and the boundary that a young Stefan had once carefully traversed in a quest to steal the gems which gleamed so enticingly beneath the clear, quiet water. Perhaps the scrub was a little denser, the trees a tad taller, but it could have been fifty years in the past or fifty years hence as easily as the present day.

Diaval had not even been hatched then – nor, indeed, had either of his parents. His grandparents had been the ravens circling above as Maleficent and Stefan grew, oblivious to the significance of the scenes below them or how they would someday change the course of their grandson’s life.

What indeed might they think, if only they could see him now? A different creature entirely, one with words and hands and wings which dwarfed their own, mated to the greatest of his adopted kind and a respected and beloved being in his own right? Friend to man and beast alike – including, Diaval realised with a smile, a certain beast who was almost hidden in the long grass below him.

He alighted in the overgrown lea on the Perceforest side of the border. The grass tickled his bare feet as he made his way to a small apple copse by the burbling creek, his smile growing wider with each step, until he finally stopped a few feet from a small brown horse who was methodically munching away at the fallen winter fruit between the trees. He had put on weight, Diaval realised – in all the months that he had known him, the boy finally looked _healthy_.

“Hello Ekkert.” Diaval said at last, crooking his lips into an affectionate grin.

The horse snorted, raising his nose briefly in welcome before diving into the apples again.

“How are you farin’? Plenty of apples to be eatin’, of course, but are the humans leavin’ you be?”

Ekkert looked up again and nodded. His umber mane flopped about his eyes and he tried to blow it out of the way, but only succeeded in spraying apple chunks all over Diaval’s tunic.

Diaval rolled his eyes and brushed the coarse hair out of Ekkert’s. It had been some time since the boy had begged Maleficent to change him; his tears cried out, but his grief as raw as the day that his sister had died. She had been reluctant, at first, but on realising that the lad had little else to hold him to the human world and no real way forward, she had granted him his request on a trial basis. All that Ekkert had to do to regain his human form was to find her and let her know as much.

That had been eight months past. Somehow, Diaval felt that the boy, much like himself, would not opt to wear his human shape again.

He took Ekkert’s muzzle in his hands and looked into the horse’s eyes. _Familiar_ eyes. They were still the same deep brown as they had been in his human form, and just as knowing. Diaval wondered just how much those eyes truly saw.

“There’s a celebration at Ulstead Castle today. It’s Wilfred’s first birthday. The wee terror – he’s already toddlin’ about on those sturdy little legs and gettin’ into all manner of mischief.” Diaval said. He smiled indulgently at the thought of his beloved grandson, whom he maintained was every bit as precocious and magnificent as his mother had been, in spite of Maleficent’s insistence that his adoration of the pair of them somewhat altered his perception of reality. “I’m sure that he and Aurora would love to see you, if you want to go.”

Ekkert bumped him in the stomach with his nose, which Diaval took as affirmation. It was far easier to speak horse when he actually _was_ one, but he and the lad generally managed a reasonable degree of communication most of the time regardless.

“Good. I’ll see you at the castle, then. Midday. Aurora tells me that there will be pie.”

Ekkert gave an excited whinny and stomped his front hoof into a particularly slushy apple. He bowed his head to Diaval and turned toward the south, in the direction of Ulstead. He took off into a steady trot, but within moments he was unable to contain himself, breaking into a joyful gallop.

Perhaps one could have wings without having wings at all, for Ekkert had found his own way of flying.

Diaval took to the air once more and followed the lad, turning back toward the Moors in the hope of finally finding his mate.

Toward the Ulstead border, he saw Borra lying in a patch of soft clover, his eyes closed and an expression of serenity playing across his face. In his arms, curled into his chest, lay Corax.

It was a new sort of thing, but one that he and Maleficent were quietly watching with a considerable amount of hope. They had found, in the face of the almost-mating that never should have happened, a new depth to their relationships. Maleficent and Borra had remained friends, and were far closer now than they would ever have been had they actually mated. They had a comfortable rapport, now, with the air clear. Diaval, on the other hand, was delighted to finally consider Borra a true friend. (Indeed, he was often something of an enabler and frequently a terrible influence, but they did have _fun_ , at least until Maleficent invariably discovered their shenanigans.)

Over the previous winter, though, Borra had been seen spending more and more time with Corax, and neither Maleficent nor Diaval had ever seen the Desert Fey more content. It was the first sweet blooming of love, but it was proving to be something quite special indeed.

Borra opened his eyes as Diaval flew overhead and tilted his hand upward in a lazy sort of wave. “Off to Ulstead?” he called.

“Once I find Maleficent. Will we see you there?”

“Count on it. Little fellow must be missing his Uncle Borra.”

Diaval laughed. “No doubt. Who else is game enough to risk his grandmother’s wrath by takin’ him all the way into the bloody clouds?”

Borra wiggled his index finger in Diaval’s direction and grinned. “See you there, raven.”

Funny, really, how that had turned into a term of endearment.

Diaval flew on, glancing upward to check the position of the sun again. If he didn’t find Maleficent soon, he might just have to go on to Ulstead without her, and hope that she turned up eventually.

Could she be sulking? He couldn’t think of anything which she might have been sulking _about_ , but that hardly meant anything when it came to Maleficent. Love had failed to make her any less mercurial, though Diaval could hardly complain. Her capriciousness was one of the things that he secretly adored about her, as much as it drove him to the knife’s edge of sanity at times.

Come to think of it, she _had_ been rather grumpy in the past week or so, though she had vehemently denied being bothered by anything. It was an obvious lie, but Diaval knew better than to push her. She would tell him what was bothering her when she felt like it, and not a moment before.

He tilted his head skyward again, squinting at the bright reflection of the clouds. Was she up there above them, basking in the gentle spring headwinds?

Diaval spread his wings to their fullest span and began to ascend. He quickly found a thermal column and let it carry him upward, spiralling in the delicious warmth of the rising air. His wingtips brushed cool vapour as he reached the level of the clouds and swiftly soared above them, coming to a hover amidst the higher, more insubstantial wisps.

There, soaking up the warmth of the sun with an expression of utter serenity upon her face, was Maleficent.

Diaval’s heart fairly leapt within his chest at the sight of his beloved. He would never tire of gazing upon her, nor, he suspected, would he ever _quite_ believe his good fortune at having won her love. His life was almost too perfect; a preposterous dream held within a desperate wish, too wonderful to truly exist – but exist it did.

Her eyes were closed, and the gentle breeze which stirred the clouds tugged lightly at her unrestrained locks. With wings spread out either side of her, she could have been an angel as easily as the most beautiful of the Forest Fey, albeit an unusually coloured one. Legends may have begun with her, ballads written for her, fairy stories of old made timeless in their retelling, speaking of the Phoenix of the Dark Fey, the last of her line and the greatest of them all. She could have been at the heart of everything long forgotten and yet to come.

His fierce, magnificent mate; every bit the picture of wild, mystical beauty… but for her questionable choice of attire. Again.

Diaval sighed.

“I’m certain we concluded that bird skull accessories weren’t exactly celebratory.” he commented by way of greeting.

Maleficent opened her eyes and stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, her gaze penetrating through him like a rapier. His breath quickened, eyes widening in trepidation at having misread her mood. The last thing he needed was conflict on such a special day.

Then she smiled, displaying every one of her fangs. “Good morning.”

Diaval relaxed, allowing his lips to quirk up into a mischievous grin. “’S barely still mornin’. We’re due at the castle any time now. I’ve been all over the Moors lookin’ for you.”

“You are the one who disappeared at the break of dawn.” she retorted.

“I had somethin’ to finish. But it’s done now, just in time.”

She eyed the cloth bundle, still clenched in his left hand. “What is it?”

“It’s a gift. For Wilfred.” Diaval carefully unwrapped the carving and shyly held it out to her. Maleficent took it from him and turned it over slowly, examining it from every angle, before looking up at him in veiled admiration.

“A raven. A wooden raven.”

“To go with his wyvern.” Diaval replied softly. “He won’t see me in that shape so much as he’s growin’ up now. I wanted to make it for him.”

“You _made_ this?”

He grinned proudly. “I did.”

Maleficent smirked, though Diaval could tell that she was impressed. “I had no idea that you were such an artist. Perhaps I should have you whittle a door-knocker for our nest. And a door.”

“A present for your birthday.” he countered cheekily. She handed him back the carved raven and he rewrapped it with the care befitting the treasure that it was.

“You don’t know when my birthday is.”

Diaval _may_ have exaggerated the affronted expression on his face just a _tad_ as he replied in the most wounded tone that he could possibly muster, “Course I know when your birthday is! What sort of mate do you take me for?”

She raised her eyebrows and said nothing.

“It’s the vernal equinox,” Diaval continued, “Which, now that I think on it, is next week. I’d better get on if I’m goin’ to be makin’ both a door and a knocker to go with it. And a door frame, actually, because there’s no sense in a door without a frame to hold it in place.”

Maleficent ignored his prattling and fixed him with a questioning look. “How do you know when my birthday is? You’ve never said anything before.”

“I have my ways. And you never noticed all the little presents in your nest? Never wondered why they were there?”

She did not reply, but the subtle softening of her expression told him that she had. After a moment, she commented wistfully, “I don’t know when yours is. Your birthday.”

Diaval could only shrug apologetically, though he had barely given a thought as to the reciprocity of the situation. He had simply been content in quietly celebrating the anniversary of her birth – arguably one of the greatest days in history, as far as he was concerned, for it gave the world _Maleficent_ – without considering that she did not share his secret. She had never spoken of her own birthday, nor had she ever asked about his.

“In fairness, neither do I.” he said ruefully, “Ravens don’t really _do_ birthdays, we just watch the seasons. I’ve just sort of borrowed yours for the past twenty years or so, actually, and thought myself a year older then. Easier to remember that way. And I like the idea of sharin’ it with you.”

“Well,” Maleficent replied as a meaningful glint appeared in her eyes, “Perhaps this year we can celebrate together.”

Diaval grinned and waggled his brows at her suggestively. He moved close enough to thread his arms around her waist, allowing the warm updraft upon which she glided to hold them both aloft. “Perhaps we can,” he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against hers, “I can think of a few ways that we could do that.”

“Insatiable creature.” she whispered into his kiss, “I should have known that you would prove inexhaustibly lecherous.”

“I’ve not heard you complainin’.”

“Nor will you.” she replied, pulling him close and kissing him in a manner which he knew was to forestall any further discussion on the matter.

He wouldn't have dared to argue with her anyway, not with her as irascible as she had been lately, but Maleficent did not need to know that. Oh no, she could kiss him distracted all day if she liked. All day long and well into the evening as well, if she felt it necessary. Diaval was not complaining at all.

He was just considering the logistics of getting back to their nest in the shortest possible time to continue being distracted even more thoroughly when Maleficent broke the kiss and smiled regretfully at his flushed face.

“I suppose we shall have to show our faces at the castle.” she murmured, carefully dragging a fingertip along his jaw to rest on his swollen lips.

Oh yes. Wilfred’s birthday celebration. Diaval had somehow managed to briefly forget about that, what with Maleficent’s tongue in his mouth and the sharp press of her talons into his rear and all.

“We… we could be late?” he replied hopefully. A quick roll in the nest wouldn’t cause _too_ great a delay, surely?

Maleficent shook her head. “Ingrith is vying for grandmotherly superiority now that she is human again, and that simply cannot be borne.” She wore the expression of someone who had smelled something rather unpleasant.

Diaval snorted. It would not matter how many ways in which their lives intertwined, there was no way in which his mate would ever allow herself more than a passing tolerance of the Ulsteadan queen. “Ah, she’s finally realised the importance of family. It’s like a fairy tale endin’.”

“Only the fairy tales in which she embodies the villainous troll.” Maleficent muttered. She curled her lip upward to emphasise her displeasure at the mere _thought_ of her precious grandson favouring the likes of Ingrith over _her_ , as though that were a situation which had even the slightest possibility of occurring. If nothing else, Maleficent had a distinct, if occasionally ferocious, maternal quality to her personality which came to the fore around Wilfred, whereas Ingrith was about as grandmotherly as a leopard slug. Diaval was firmly convinced that Maleficent had absolutely nothing to worry about.

“Oh, cheer up. Nobody’ll ever _really_ like Ingrith, even if she starts handin’ out sweetcakes and singin’ happy little nursery songs. Now come on, don’t start sulkin’. We get to spend the day with Aurora and Wilfred! Couldn’t be better!”

A raised eyebrow and a churlish, “Hmm” were the only responses that he received, unusual enough to Diaval that he could not help but confront her on them, despite his earlier resolve to let her be.

“All right, what’s the matter? You’re never ambivalent about seein’ the little ones, even when Ingrith is hangin’ about like the stench of an unwashed peasant. Come to think on it, you’ve been stewin’ like pease porridge for days. Somethin’ is botherin’ you.”

Maleficent clenched her jaw and very deliberately did not meet his gaze. She appeared to be debating with herself as to whether to answer him or ignore his question entirely. Perhaps it was worse than Diaval had thought, although just _what_ was on her mind was still frustratingly unclear.

Finally, his mate looked him in the eye and sighed in a resigned sort of way, as though he had been the one berating her into responding instead of her own mind.

“Aurora is pregnant again.” she said.

Diaval blinked in surprise, hesitating for only a moment before a broad grin lit up his face. Were he to be honest with himself, it had crossed his mind more than once that Maleficent’s moodiness might actually prove a cause for a celebration; although the truth of the matter was not _quite_ what he had imagined, he found himself thrilled nonetheless.

“A wee baby? That’s wonderful! Isn’t that wonderful, Maleficent?”

“ _Wonderful_? How do you figure, you silly bird?”

“Another little grandchild to love! That’s wonderful, isn’t it? And our Wilfred, a big brother! He’s goin’ to be such a good big brother, he’s so gentle with that horrible Arabella’s kittens, and human babies aren’t all that different to kittens, really. Less hair, I s’pose, but they _sound_ very much the same-”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop _babbling_ , Diaval. Honestly, no sooner does the Beastie have one baby than that avaricious husband of hers is busying himself making another on her; utterly _typical_ of humans and their complete inability to control their baser desires.” she hissed.

Diaval raised an eyebrow at her. “Now, you can’t really say that,” he replied carefully, “Especially considerin’ what we did just last night.”

“It is hardly the same.”

“ _Twice_.”

“A _completely_ different scenario.”

“And three times the night before that.” he reminded her.

“Apples and pears.”

“Speakin’ of which,” Diaval said, deftly swiping back control of the conversation before it could degenerate into a time-wasting squabble, “I’m starvin’. We should go to the castle. And _congratulate_ Aurora and Phillip on their new little one, _not_ rail at them for doin’ what all mated couples do. Includin’ us. _Especially_ us.”

“Perhaps you should wait until Aurora figures it out herself before offering your well wishes, Diaval.” Maleficent replied, “I doubt that she knows with any certainty yet.”

He frowned. “You didn’t wait with Wilfred. Droppin’ hints the mornin’ after their weddin’ like an all-seein’ soothsayer.”

“How remarkably rude of you to draw such an unpleasant comparison. And it was only a _little_ hint. I didn’t tell them _everything_.”

“What more was there to tell them?”

“That they could expect a son?”

He stared at her in undisguised surprise. “You knew that too? Even so early?”

“Of course.” Maleficent replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world to know the basic details of a child mere hours after their conception. Now that he considered it, though, he would not have been especially astonished had she confessed to also knowing that Wilfred would turn out to be shockingly blonde. She _was_ the Phoenix of the Dark Fey, after all. There probably _were_ limits to her abilities, but Diaval doubted that she had discovered them all yet.

Diaval narrowed his eyes at her conspiratorially and whispered, “What about this time?”

“I know this time too.” Maleficent replied obtusely, though she bared her fangs at him in amusement.

He rolled his eyes and waved his hand about in a ‘ _well?’_ sort of gesture. “Grandson or granddaughter?”

“Does it matter?”

“I swear that you thrive on bein’ inscrutable.” Diaval grumbled. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep from sticking his tongue out at her.

“I would never deny such a thing.”

“Nor would I expect you to, it bein’ the truth and all.”

“ _Rude_.”

“That’s me. Diaval the rude raven. So is Aurora’s little one a lad or a lass, then?”

“You’ll harass me into eternity over this, won’t you?” Maleficent sighed.

“Never doubt it. A bird’s got to have somethin’ good to look forward to, after all, even when life is already as close to perfect as it can get.”

He looked up at her then, finding a gentle smile and eyes full of affectionate warmth. There was something unreadable in them, beyond the exasperated resignation which any fool or bird could see, and he stared at her for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

“You wanted it to be me.”

Perhaps there _were_ no limits to her powers, if she could reach into his heart so easily and extract a desire that he had not yet fully realised himself. To lay it so plainly before him, without pretext or preamble, shocked Diaval into silence for several reverberant beats of his heart, but before he had found the words to answer her he had felt the truth of it within his soul.

He could not burden her with that sort of expectation, though, and it could not have been called such a thing in any case. Though the echoes of his dreams sang sweet melodies of his little bird, the tiny being whose presence would bring him happiness beyond reckoning, he could not – he _would_ not – create presumption where such a thing had no right to exist.

Instead, Diaval shrugged and feigned a nonchalance which he did not entirely feel. “Plenty of time for that.”

“Am I wrong?”

_No, my love, but I will not have you believing that there could be any greater gift in my life than you, and you alone._

“I suppose not, but as I said, there’s no hurry, is there? Anyway,” Diaval winked cheekily, “I’m sure you’d tell me somethin’ that important straight away, instead of sulkin’ and stewin’ on it for days like you have been.”

Maleficent canted an eyebrow and said nothing.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” he said. There was something in her expression which made him feel as a rodent might in the face of a descending hawk; fearful at the intensity of his plight, but somehow still hopeful of a miraculous escape into the undergrowth. Well, he reflected, it was probably rather stupid of him to call attention to her sulking. True or not, pointing it out was seldom well-received.

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” she teased, apparently relishing his unfolding terror. Oh gods above, he was really afraid now.

Afraid, and yet his heart had quickened for an entirely different reason.

“Maleficent? You… you would tell me straight away, wouldn’t you?”

The corners of her mouth twitched upward as she angled her wings to move away from him, but still she said nothing.

Diaval’s eyebrow almost hit his hairline.

“Maleficent? No…” Diaval asked softly, his eyes narrowing then widening almost comically as comprehension dawned. A grin slowly spread across his face. “Really? _Really_?”

She leaned backward to catch a column of hot air, widening the distance between them and turning in the direction of Ulstead Castle. “Come along, Diaval, we have a _grand_ celebration to attend.”

“Wait a minute, you can’t just up and leave now! You haven’t answered me!”

“We are going to be late.” she called back to him from over her shoulder. Was she was _laughing_ at him? Shaking his head, he took off after her, beating his wings to close the distance even as she pulled away in a burst of speed.

A chase, then. A joyful game which they could now play together in a way which they had never known before. He would follow her forever, to the end of eternity and to all which lay beyond.

And when he caught up with her – for he would, eventually, though it would only be because she allowed him to – he would ask her once again.

Just to be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The seeds of _The Warlock of Nyrsta Vígi_ were first planted over Christmas 2019, and blossomed over the ensuing summer. It was not until late February that the idea was truly consolidated, and even then, it was little more than a nice little diversion to occupy my thoughts as I washed my hair or drove about running errands. I started outlining the plot properly in March, fleshing out the original characters and jotting down all that I knew about the canon ones.
> 
> Although I had seen _Maleficent_ years earlier, when it was initially released in cinemas, the circumstances of my life at that point led it to be filed under ‘I enjoyed it, but I don’t have time to think further on it right now’ in my brain. In October 2019, my husband realised that our gifted Gold Class movie tickets from the previous Christmas were imminently expiring and booked the only movie which looked remotely interesting at the time – _Maleficent: Mistress of Evil_.
> 
> I was pleased, because I had enjoyed the original movie, and I quietly wanted to see the sequel but didn’t know if he would go for it. We got home afterwards, stuffed to the gills because that’s Village Gold Class for you, and I found that I couldn’t stop thinking about the movie or the characters. The poor dear had inadvertently created a monster with his choice of movie.
> 
> He still has no idea.
> 
> I began to write. For the first time ever, I took the step of publishing online – having never been brave enough to do so before. I churned out _Phoenix_ before Christmas just to see if I had it in me to actually finish something that I had started (but you can’t half tell that it’s my first effort in the fandom, and I argue with myself regularly on whether or not to rewrite it to make it a bit less shit) and almost immediately wrote _Diaval Discovers…_ , _The Whereabouts of Diaval_ and _Dreaming of You_ , but there was an inch which I couldn’t seem to reach to scratch.
> 
> It was an itch made of plot holes and loose ends, and the more I thought about it, and how I would go about fixing those in a threequel, the more solid the idea for _The Warlock of Nyrsta Vígi_ became. I wrote a diatribe on Tumblr about it, and came to the conclusion that there were a lot of people out there who felt similarly about the problems with _Mistress of Evil_.
> 
> We may never get a third movie. That was the impetus, really. If I had ultimate godlike powers over all things Disney, what would the third instalment of the _Maleficent_ franchise look like?
> 
> Chapter 1 was written in a matter of days in April 2020, and published on AO3 on the 27th of that month. As I write this afterword, it is now January 5th, 2021, and the story is at last coming to an end. Eight months of fairly solid writing – for there was seldom a week without it, especially given the months that we spent in lockdown in the middle of it. If nothing else, I’m proud of _that_. There were times when all I wanted to do was throw in the towel, because I’d written myself into a corner and had no idea how to get over to the tree that I needed to get to, because that was the next major plot point.
> 
> The story changed a lot from the original outline. It became far bigger and more complicated than it was ever intended to be, but I feel that it has worked to the benefit of the narrative. I have learned a lot of very random things as a result of researching for the sake of accuracy – because mice _can’t_ vomit, and if that ever pops up as a trivia night question, then I’m going to be a bloody _hero_.
> 
> None of this would have happened, though, without you. So many people have left kudos and the loveliest, most encouraging comments, and that has been what has given me the drive to see _The Warlock of Nyrsta Vígi_ through to the end. 
> 
> To all of you here on AO3 – thank you for your heartening words and beautiful feedback. Some of it has arrived in my inbox on days when I was feeling pretty low, and it was exactly what I needed to hear. There’s something incredibly powerful in kindness from a stranger, in someone who says something positive because they _want_ to, not because they feel that they have to. I am immensely grateful to each and every one of you for taking the time to reach out, because each and every one of you have brightened my day and brought a smile to my face. I hope that this story has been everything that you hoped it would be, and that perhaps I have returned that smile.
> 
> To my cheer squad on Tumblr – I love you guys, and I’m so thankful to have met you in the internettiest sense of the term. The chances of our ever meeting in person are infinitesimally small, but know that I think of you often, and value your friendship. Long may the awesomeness continue, beautiful people!
> 
> Thank you, thank you everyone. As Diaval put it a few chapters back - more than there are words for.


End file.
